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THE LITTLE FACE DROPPED UPON THE OPEN PAGE, 




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NEW Y O BJ) K 
THOMAS Y CROWELL CO 
PUBLXSHE IL 5 








THE LI8RARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Copies Received 


JUl 20 1903 

CUSS (X 'XX c. No 


COPY B. 




Copyright, 1903, 

By Thomas Y. Crowell & Company. 


Published September , IQ03. 



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CONTENTS 


O'hapteb Page 

I. Diverse Wavs 1 

II. A Human Express Parcel ... 14 

III. Arrival 34 

IV. A Multitude of Josephs ... 46 

V. A Wild March Morning ... 63 

VI. Memories and Melodies .... 80 

VII. The Boy from Next Door ... 95 

VIII. After the Frolic Ill 

IX. Neighborly Amenities .... 123 

X. Tom, Dick, Harry, and the Baby, 138 

XI. The Disposal of the Parcel . . 150 



THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


CHAPTER I. 

DIVERSE WAYS. 

Three people were together in a very 
pleasant little parlor, in a land where the sun 
shines nearly all the time. They were Doctor 
Mack, whose long, full name was Alexander 
MacDonald ; mamma, who was Mrs. John 
Smith ; and Josephine, who was Mrs. Smith’s 
little girl with a pretty big name of her own. 

Doctor Mack called Mrs. Smith "Cousin 
Helen,” and was very good to her. Indeed, 
ever since papa John Smith had had to go 
away and leave his wife and child to house- 
keep by themselves the busy doctor-cousin 
had done many things for them, and mamma 
was accustomed to go to him for advice about 


2 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


all little business matters. It was because she 
needed his advice once more that she had sum- 
moned him to the cottage now ; even though 
he was busier than ever, since he was making 
ready to leave San Diego that very day for the 
long voyage to the Philippine Islands. 

Evidently the advice that had so promptly 
been given was not agreeable ; for when 
Josephine looked up from the floor where she 
was dressing Rudanthy, mamma was crying 
softly, and Doctor Mack was saying in his 
gravest take-your-medicine-right-away kind of 
a voice that there was " nothing else to da.” 

" Oh, my poor darling ! She is so young, 
so innocent. I cannot, I cannot ! ” wailed the 
mother. 

" She is the most self-reliant, independent 
young lady of her age that I ever knew,” re- 
turned the doctor. 

Josephine realized that they were talking 
about her, but did n’t see why that should make 
her mother sad. It must be all the cousin-doc- 
tor’s fault. She had never liked him since he 
had come a few weeks before, and scratched 


DIVERSE WAYS. 


3 


her arm and made it sore. " Vaccinated ” it, 
mamma had said, to keep her from being ill 
sometime. Which had been very puzzling to 
the little girl, because " sometime ” might never 
come, while the arm-scratching had made her 
miserable for the present. She now asked, in 
fresh perplexity : 

" Am I ' poor,’ mamma? ” 

" At this moment I feel that you are very 
poor indeed, my baby,” answered the lady. 

Josephine glanced about the familiar room, 
in which nothing seemed changed except her 
mother’s face. That had suddenly grown pale 
and sad, and even wrinkled, for there was a 
deep, deep crease between its brows. 

" That ’s funny. Where are my rags ? ” asked 
the child. 

Mamma smiled ; but the doctor laughed out- 
right, and said : 

" There is more than one way of being 
poor, little missy. Come and show me your 
arm.” 

Josephine shivered as she obeyed. How- 
ever, there was nothing to fear now, for the 


4 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


arm was well healed, and the gentleman patted 
it approvingly, adding : 

" You are a good little girl, Josephine.” 

"Yes, Doctor Mack, I try to be.” 

" Yet you don’t love me, do you? ” 

"Not — not so — so very much,” answered 
the truthful child, painfully conscious of her 
own rudeness. 

" Not so well as Rudanthy,” he persisted. 

" Oh, nothing like ! ” 

" Josephine,” reproved mamma ; then caught 
her daughter in her arms, and began to lament 
over her. " My darling ! my darling ! How 
can I part from you ? ” 

Before any reply could be made to this 
strange question, the door-bell rang, and there 
came in another of those blue-coated messenger 
boys, who had been coming at intervals all that 
day and yesterday. He brought a telegram 
which mamma opened with trembling fingers. 
When she had read it, she passed it to Doctor 
Mack, who also read it ; after which he folded 
and returned it to the lady, saying : 

" Well, Cousin Helen, you must make your 


DIVERSE WAYS. 


5 


decision at once. The steamer starts this 
afternoon. If you sail by her there ’s no time 
to be lost. If you go, I will delay my own 
preparations to help you off.” 

For one moment more Mrs. Smith stood 
silent, pressing her hands to her throbbing 
temples, and gazing at Josephine as if she 
could not take her eyes from the sweet, childish 
face. Then she turned toward the kind doctor 
and said, quite calmly : 

" Yes, Cousin Aleck, I will go.” 

He went away quickly, and mamma rang the 
bell for big Bridget, who came reluctantly, wip- 
ing her eyes on her apron. But her mistress 
was not crying now, and announced : 

"Bridget, I am starting for Chili by this 
afternoon’s steamer. Josephine is going to 
Baltimore by the six o’clock overland. There 
isn’t a moment to waste. Please bring the 
empty trunks from the storeroom and pack 
them while I attend to other matters, though I 
will help you as I can. Put my clothes into 
the large trunk and J osephine’s into the small 
one. There, there, good soul, don’t begin to 


6 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


cry again. I need all my own will to get 
through this awful day ; and please make haste.” 

During the busy hours which followed both 
mamma and Bridget seemed to have forgotten 
the little girl, save, now and then, to answer 
her questions ; and one of these was : 

"What’s Chili, Bridget?” 

" Sure, it ’s a kind of pickle-sauce, darlin’.” 

" Have n’t we got some of it in the cupboard ? ” 

" Slathers, my colleen.” 

" Chili is a country, my daughter,” corrected 
mamma, looking up from the letter she was 
writing so hurriedly that her pen went scratch, 
scratch. 

"Is it red, mamma?” 

"Hush, little one. Don’t be botherin’ the 
mistress the now. Here’s Budanthy’s best 
clothes. Put ’em on, and have her ready for 
the start.” 

" Is Budanthy going a journey, too, Bridget ? ” 

" ' Over the seas and far away ’ — or over the 
land ; what differ ? ” 

When the doll had been arrayed in its finery 
.mamma had finished her writing, and, rising 


DIVERSE WAYS. 


7 


fioin her desk, called the child to her. Then 
she took her on her lap and said, very earn- 
estly : 

" Josephine, you are eight years old.” 

" Yes, mamma. This very last birthday that 
ever was.” 

" That is old enough to be brave and helpful.” 

" Oh, quite, mamma. I did n’t cry when 
Doctor Mack vaccinated me, and I sewed a 
button on my apron all myself.” 

" For a time I am obliged to go away from 
you, my — my precious ! ” 

Josephine put up her hand and stroked her 
mother’s cheek, begging : 

"Don’t cry, mamma, and please, please 
don’t go away.” 

The lady’s answer was a question : 

"Do you love papa, darling?” 

" Why, mamma ! How funny to ask ! Course 
I do, dearly, dearly.” 

"Poor papa is ill. Very ill, I fear. He is 
alone in a far, strange country. He needs me 
to take care of him. He has sent for me, and 
I am going to him. But I cannot take you. 


8 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


For many reasons — the climate, the uncer- 
tainty — I am going to send you East to your 
Uncle Joe’s; the uncle for whom you were 
named, your father’s twin brother. Do you 
understand me, dear?” 

" Yes, mamma. You are going to papa, and 
I am going to Uncle Joe. Who is going with 
me there ? ” 

"Nobody, darling. There is nobody who 
can go. We have no relatives here, except our 
doctor cousin, and he is too busy. So we are 
going to send you by express. It is a safe 
way, though a lonely one, and — Oh, my 
darling, my darling ; how can I ! how can I ! ” 

Ever since papa had gone, so long ago, Jose- 
phine had had to comfort mamma. She did so 
now, smoothing the tear- wet cheek with her 
fat little hand, and chattering away about the 
things Bridget had put in her trunk. 

" But she must n’t pack Rudanthy . I can’t 
have her all smothered up. I will take Ru- 
danthy in my arms. She is so little and so 
sweet.” 

" So little and so sweet ! ” echoed the mother’s 


DIVERSE WAYS . 


9 


heart, sadly ; and it was well for all that Doctor 
Mack returned just then. For he was so brisk 
and business-like, he had so many directions to 
give, he was so cheerful and even gay, that, 
despite her own forebodings, Mrs. Smith caught 
something of his spirit, and completed her prep- 
arations for departure calmly and promptly. 

Toward nightfall it was all over : the part- 
ing that had been so bitter to the mother and 
so little understood by the child. Mamma was 
standing on the deck of the outward moving 
steamer, straining her eyes backward over the 
blue Pacific toward the pretty harbor of San 
Diego, almost believing she could still see a 
little scarlet-clad figure waving a cheerful fare- 
well from the vanishing wharf. But Jose- 
phine, duly ticketed and labelled, was already 
curled up on the cushions of her section in the 
sleeper, and staring out of window at the 
sights which sped by. 

" The same old ocean, but so big, so big ! 
Mamma says it is peacock-blue, like the 
wadded kimono she bought at the Japanese 
store. Is n’t it queer that the world should fly 


10 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


past us like this ! That ’s what it means in the 
jogaphy about the earth turning round, I sup- 
pose. If it does n’t stop pretty soon I shall get 
dreadful dizzy and, maybe, go to sleep. But 
how could I? I’m an express parcel now. 
Cousin Doctor Mack said so, and dear mamma. 
Parcels don’t go to sleep ever, do they, Rudan- 
thy?” 

But Rudanthy herself, lying flat in her mis- 
tress’ lap, had closed her] own waxen lids and 
made no answer. The only one she could 
have made, indeed, would have been " Papa,” 
or "Mamma,” and that would n’t have been a 
" truly ” answer, anyway. 

Besides, just then a big man, shining with 
brass buttons and a brass-banded cap, came 
along and demanded : 

" Tickets, please.” 

Josephine clutched Rudanthy and woke that 
indolent creature rather suddenly. 

"Dolly, dolly, sit up! The shiny-blue man 
is hollering at the people dreadful loud. May- 
be it ’s wrong for dolls to go to sleep in these 
railway things.” 



"WHERE’S YOUR FOLKS?" 




DIVERSE WAYS. 


11 


The shiny-blue man stopped right at Jose- 
phine’s seat, and demanded fiercely, or it 
sounded fierce to the little girl : 

" Sissy, where ’s your folks ? ” 

"Please, I haven’t got any,” she answered 
politely. 

"Who do you belong to, then? ” asked he. 

"I ’m Mrs. John Smith’s little girl, Jose- 
phine,” she explained. 

"Hmm. Well, where’s Mrs. John Smith?” 
he persisted. 

" She ’s gone away, ” said she, wishing he, 
too, would go away. 

" Indeed. Tell me where to find her. You ’re 
small enough, but there should be somebody 
else in this section.” 

" I guess you can’t find her. She ’s sailing 
and sailing on a steamer to my papa, who ’s 
sick and needs her more ’n I do.” 

" Hello ! this is odd ! ” said the conductor, 
and passed on. But not before he added the 
caution : 

"You stay right exactly where you are, 
sissy, till I come back. I ’ll find out your 
party and have you looked after.” 


12 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Josephine tried to obey to the very letter. 
She did not even lay aside the doll she had 
clasped to her breast, nor turn her head to look 
out of the window. The enchanting, fairy-like 
landscape might fly by and by her in its bewil- 
dering way ; she dared gaze upon it no more. 

After a while there were lights in the coach, 
and these made Josephine’s eyes blink faster 
and faster. They blinked so fast, in fact, that 
she never knew when they ceased doing so, or 
anything that went on about her, till she felt 
herself lifted in somebody’s arms, and raised 
her heavy lids, to see the shiny-blue man’s 
face close above her own, and to hear his voice 
saying : 

" Poor little kid ! Make her berth up with 
double blankets, Bob, and keep an eye on it 
through the night. My ! Think of a baby like 
this making a three-thousand-mile journey 
alone. My own little ones — Pshaw ! What 
made me remember them just now? ” 

Then Josephine felt a scratchy mustache 
upon her cheek, and a hard thing which might 
have been a brass button jam itself into her 


DIVERSE WAYS. 


13 


temple. Next she was put down into the soft- 
est little bed in the world, the wheels went to 
singing " Chug-chug-chug,” in the drowsiest 
sort of lullaby, and that was all she knew for a 
long time. 

But something roused her, suddenly, and 
she stretched out her hand to clasp, yet failed 
to find, her own familiar bed-fellow. Missing 
this she sat up in her berth and shrieked 
aloud : 

" Rudanthy ! Ru-dan-thy ! RUDANTHY!” 


CHAPTER n. 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 

" Hush, sissy ! Don’t make such a noise. 
Yon ’re disturbing a whole car full of people,” 
said somebody near her. 

Josephine suppressed her cries, but could 
not stifle the mighty sob which shook her. She 
looked up into the face of the black porter, 
Bob, studied it attentively, found it not unkind, 
and regained her self-possession. 

"My name is not sissy. It’s Josephine 
Smith. I want my dolly. I cannot go to 
sleep without her. Her name is Rudanthy. 
Fetch me Rudanthy, boy.” 

Bob was the most familiar object she had yet 
seen. He might have come from the big hotel 
where she and mamma had taken their meals. 
Her mother’s cottage had been close by, and 
sometimes of a morning a waiter had brought 

O O 

14 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 15 


their breakfast across to them. That waiter 
was a favorite, and in this dimness she fancied 
he had appeared before her. 

"Do you live at the 'Florence,’ boy?” she 
asked. 

"No, missy, but my brother does,” he an- 
swered. 

"Ah! Fetch me Rudanthy, please.” 

After much rummaging, and some annoyance 
to a lady who now occupied the upper berth, 
the doll was found and restored. But by this 
time Josephine was wide awake and disposed 
to ask questions. 

" What ’s all the curtains hung in a row for, 
Bob?” 

" To hide the berths, missy. I guess you ’d 
better not talk now.” 

"No, I won’t. What you doing now, Bob? ” 
she continued. 

" Making up the section across from yours, 
missy. Best go to sleep,” advised the man. 

" Oh, I ’m not a bit sleepy. Are you? ” was 
her next demand. 

" Umm,” came the unsatisfactory response. 


16 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


"What you say? You mustn’t mumble. 
Mamma never allows me to mumble. I always 
speak outright,” was Josephine’s next com- 
ment. 

" Reckon that’s true enough,” murmured the 
porter, under his breath. 

" What, Bob? I didn’t hear,” from the lit- 
tle girl. 

" No matter, I’ll tell you in the morning,” 
he whispered. 

" I ’d rather know now.” 

No response coming to this, she went on : 

" Bob ! Please to mind me, boy. I — want 
— to — hear — now,” very distinctly and 
emphatically. Josephine had been accustomed 
to having her wishes attended to immediately. 
That was about all mamma and big Bridget 
seemed to live for. 

The lady in the berth above leaned over the 
edge and said, in a shrill whisper : 

"Little girl, keep still.” 

"Yes, lady.” 

Bob finished the opposite section, and a 
woman in a red kimono came from the dressing- 

O 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 17 


room and slipped behind the curtain. Josephine 
knew a red kimono. It belonged to Mrs. 
Dutton, the minister’s wife, and Mrs. Dutton 
often stayed at mamma’s cottage. Could this 
be Mrs. Dutton? 

The child was out of bed, across the narrow 
aisle, swaying with the motion of the car, pull- 
ing the curtains apart, and clutching wildly at 
a figure in the lower berth. 

" Mrs. Dutton. Oh ! Mrs. Dutton ! Here ’s 
Josephine.” 

"Ugh! Ouch! Eh! What?” 

" Oh ! ’Xcuse me. I thought you were 
Mrs. Dutton.” 

"Well, I’m not. Go away. Draw that 
curtain again. Go back to your folks. Your 
mother should know better than to let you roam 
about the sleeper at night.” 

" My mother knows — everything ! ” said 
Josephine, loyally. "I’m dreadful sorry 
you’re not Mrs. Dutton, ’cause she’d have 
tooken off my coat and things. My coat is 
new. My mamma would n’t like me to sleep 
in it. But the buttons stick. I can’t undo it.” 


18 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" Go to your mother, child. I don’t wish to 
be annoyed.” 

" I can’t, ’cause she ’s over seas, big Bridget 
says, to that red-pickle country. I s’pose I’ll 
have to, then. Good night. I hope you’ll 
rest well.” 

The lady in the red kimono did not feel as if 
she would. She was always nervous in a 
sleeping car, anyway ; and what did the child 
mean by " over seas in the red-pickle country ” ? 
Was it possible she was travelling alone? 
Were there people in the world so foolish as 
to allow such a thing ? 

After a few moments of much thinking, the 
lady rose, carefully adjusted her kimono, and 
stepped to Josephine’s berth. The child lay 
holding the curtains apart, much to the disgust 
of the person overhead, and gazing at the lamp 
above. Her cheeks were wet, her free hand 
clutched Rudanthy, and the expression of her 
face was one that no woman could see and not 
pity. 

" My dear little girl, don’t cry. I ’ve come 
to take off your cloak. Please sit up a minute.” 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL . 19 


"Oh, that’s nice! Thank you. I — I — if 
mamma ” — 

" I ’ll try to do what mamma would. There. 
It’s unfastened. Such a pretty coat it is, too. 
Have n’t you a little gown of some sort to put 
on?” 

" All my things are in the satchel. Big 
Bridget put them there. She told me — I for- 
get what she did tell me. Bob tucked the 
satchel away.” 

"I’ll find it.” 

By this time the upper berth lady was again 
looking over its edge and airing her views on 
the subject : 

" The idea ! If I ’d known I was going to be 
pushed off up here and that chit of a child put 
in below I ’d have made a row.” 

" I believe you,” said Red Kimono, calmly. 
"Yet I suppose this lower bed must have been 
taken and paid for in the little one’s name.” 

" ’Xcuse me, Mrs. Kimono. I ’m not a little 
one. I ’m quite, quite big. I ’m Josephine.” 

" And is there nobody on this train belonging 
to you, Miss Josie?” asked Mrs. Red Kimono. 


20 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" Josephine. My mamma does n’t like nick- 
names. There ’s nobody but the expressman. 
And everybody. Doctor Mack said to my 
mamma that everybody would take care of me. 
I heard him. It is the truth. Doctor Mack is 
a grown-up gentleman. Gentlemen never tell 
wrong stories. Do they?” asked the little 
girl. 

" They ought not, surely. And we ought 

not to be talking now. It is in the middle of 

the night, and all the tired people want to sleep. 

Are you comfortable? Then curl down here 

with Rudanthy and shut your eyes. If you 

happen to wake again, and feel lonely, just 

come across to my berth and creep in with me. 

There ’s room in it for two when one of the two 

is so small. Good-night. I ’ll see you in the 

morning.” 

© 

Red Kimono ceased whispering, pressed a 
kiss on the round cheek, and disappeared. 
She was also travelling alone, but felt not half 
so lonely since she had comforted the little 
child, who was again asleep, but smiling this 
time, and who awoke only when a lady in a 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 21 


plain gray costume pulled the curtains apart 
and touched her lightly on the shoulder. This 
was " Red Kimono ” in her day attire. 

" Time to get up, Josephine. Breakfast is 
ready and your section-mate will want the 
place fixed up. May I take you to the dressing- 
room ? ” 

" Our colleen ’s one of them good-natured 
kind that wakes up wide to-once and laughin’,” 
had been big Bridget’s boast even when her 
charge was but an infant, nor had the little girl 
outgrown her very sensible babyish custom. 
She responded to the stranger’s greeting with 
a merry smile and " Good morning ! ” and was 
instantly ready for whatever was to come. 

She was full of wonder over the cramped 
little apartment which all the women travellers 
used in succession as a lavatory, and it may be 
that this wonder made her submit without hin- 
drance to the rather clumsy brushing of her 
curls which Red Kimono attempted. 

" ’Xcuse me, that is n’t the way mamma or 
big Bridget does. They put me in the bath, 
first off; then my hair, and then my clothes. 


22 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Have n’t you got any little girls to your 
house, Red Kimono?” inquired the young 
traveller. 

" No, dear, I have n’t even a house 
answered the lady, rather sadly. " But your 
own dear mamma would have to forego the 
bath on a railway sleeper, so let ’s make haste 
and give the other people their rightful use of 
this place.” 

By this time several women had collected in 
the narrow passage leading to the dressing- 
room, and were watching through the crack of 
its door till Josephine’s toilet should be com- 
pleted and their own chance could come. 

" What makes all them folks out there look 
so cross, dear Red Kimono ? ” 

" Selfishness, dearie. And hungeV. First 
come best fed, on a railway dining-car, I fancy. 
There. You look quite fresh and nice. Let 
us go at once.” 

As they passed down the aisle where Bob 
was swiftly and deftly making the sections 
ready for the day’s occupancy, Josephine was 
inclined to pause and watch him, but was 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 23 


hurried onward hy her new friend, who 
advised : 

" Don’t loiter, Josephine. If we don’t get 
to table promptly we ’ll miss our seats. Hurry, 
please.” 

"Are you one of the selfish-hungry ones, Mrs. 
Red Kimono? ” 

The lady flushed, and was about to make an 
indignant reply, but reflected that indignation 
would be wasted on such a little person as 
this. 

" It may be that I am, child. Certainly I am 
hungry, and so should you be. I don’t re- 
member seeing you at supper last night.” 

" I had my supper with Doctor Mack before 
we started. Oh, he was nice to me that time. 
He gave me turkey and mince-pie, and — and 
everything that was on the bill of fare that I 
wanted, so’s I wouldn’t cry. He said I’d be 
sick, but he didn’t mind that so long as I 
did n’t cry. He hates crying people, Doctor 
Mack does. lie likes mamma ’cause she ’s so 
brave. Once my papa was a soldier, and he ’s 
a Company F man now ; but most he ’s a ’lec- 


24 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


trickeller, and has to go away to the funny 
pickle place to earn the money for mamma and 
me. So then she and me never cry once. We 
just keep on laughing like we did n’t mind, 
even if we do hate to say good-by to papa for 
so long a while. I said I would n’t cry, not on 
all this car ride ; never, not at all. I — maybe 
I forgot, though. Did I cry last night, Mrs. 
Ked Kimono ? ” 

"Possibly, just a little ; not worth mention- 
ing. Here, dear, climb into this chair,” was 
the lady’s hasty reply. 

" What a cute table ! Just like hotel ones, 
only littler. It ’s dreadful wobbly, though. It 
makes my head feel funny. I — oh ! I’m — I 
guess — I ’m sick ! ” 

The lady shivered quite as visibly as poor 
Josephine. The dining car was the last one of 
the long train, and swayed from side to side in 
a very unpleasant manner. The motion did 
not improve anybody’s appetite, and the 
grown-up traveller was now vexed with herself 
for befriending the childish one. 

"She was nothing to me. Why should I 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL . 25 


break over my fixed rules of looking out for 
number one and minding my own business? 
Well, I ’ll get through this meal somehow, and 
then rid my hands of the matter. I ’m not the 
only woman in our car. Let some of the others 
take a chance. The idea ! sending a little thing 
like that to travel alone. It ’s preposterous — 
perfectly preposterous.” 

Unconsciously she finished her thought aloud, 
and Josephine heard her, and asked : 

"What does it mean, that big word, Mrs. 
Kimono ? ” 

" It means — my name is — is n’t — no mat- 
ter. Are you better? Can you eat? It’s 
small wonder you were upset after the supper 
that foolish doctor gave you. What is your 
breakfast at home ? ” 

" Oatmeal and fruit. Sometimes, if I ’m good, 
some meat and potato.” 

"I will order it for you.” 

"Thank you, but I can order for myself. 
Mamma always allows me to. She wishes me to 
be myself, not anybody else,” returned the child. 

" Oh, indeed ! Then do so.” 


26 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Josephine recognized from the lady’s tone 
that she had given offence, though did n’t know 
why. Now, it was another of her wise mother’s 
rules that her little daughter should punish 
herself when any punishment was needed. 
Opinions didn’t always agree upon the subject, 
yet, as a rule, the conscientious child could be 
trusted to deal with her own faults more sternly 
than anybody else would do. She realized that 
here was a case in point, and, though the steak 
and potatoes which Red Kimono ordered for 
herself looked very tempting, asked only for 
oatmeal and milk, "without any sugar, if you 
please, boy.” 

The lady frowned inquiringly. 

"Are you still ill, Josephine?” 

"No, Mrs. Kimono.” 

" Are n’t you hungry ? ” 

" Dreadful.” Indeed, the hunger was evident 
enough. 

" Then why don’t you take some heartier food? 
If you’re bashful — Yet you’re certainly 
not that. If you ’re hungry, child, for goodness 
sake eat.” 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 27 


" It ’s for goodness sake I can’t. I dare n’t. 
It wouldn’t be right. Maybe I can eat my 
dinner. Maybe.” 

Tears were very near the big brown eyes, 
but the sweet little face was turned resolutely 
away from the table toward the window and 
the sights outside. One spoonful of unsweet- 
ened, flavorless meal was gulped down, and the 
trembling lips remarked : 

"It’s all begun again, has n’t it?” 

" What ’s begun, Josephine ? ” 

"The all-out-doors to go by and by us, like 
it did last night.” 

"It is we who are going by the 'all-out- 
doors,’ dear. The train moves, the landscape 
stands still. Were you never on the cars 
before ? ” inquired the lady. 

" Never, not in all my whole life.” 

" Indeed ! But that ’s not been such a Ions: 
time, after all.” 

Another brave effort at the plain breakfast, 
and the answer came : 

" It ’s pretty long to me. It seems — forever 
since yesterday ! ” 


28 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


The lady could not endure the sight of 
Josephine’s evident distress and softly slipped 
a morsel of juicy steak upon the oatmeal 
saucer. With gaze still averted the spoon 
came down into the dish, picked up the morsel, 
and conveyed it to the reluctant mouth. The 
red lips closed, smacked, opened, and the 
child faced about. With her napkin to hide 
the movement she carefully replaced the mor- 
sel on the empty plate beside the saucer and 
said, reproachfully : 

" You ought n’t to done that, Mrs. Kimono. 
Don’t you s’pose it’s bad enough to be just 
starved, almost, and not be tempted? That’s 
like big Bridget ; and my mamma has to speak 
right sharp to her, she has. Quite often, too. 
Once it was pudding, and I — I ate it. Then 
I had to do myself sorry all over again. Please 
’xcuse me.” 

" You strange child ! Yes, I will excuse you. 
I ’m leaving table myself. You must n’t attempt 
to go back through the train to our car alone. 
Eh? What? Beg pardon?” she said, turning 
around. 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL . 29 


An official in uniform was respectfully ad- 
dressing the lady : 

" Pardon, madam, but I think this must be 
my little 'Parcel . 5 Pve been looking for her. 
Did you have your breakfast, little girl ? 55 

"Yes, thank you , 55 she answered. 

"I hope you enjoyed it . 55 

" I did n’t much , 55 was her frank reply to 
this kind wish. 

"Why, wasn’t it right? Here, waiter ! I 
want you to take this young lady under your 
special care. See that she has the best of 
everything, and is served promptly, no matter 
who else waits. It 5 s a point of honor with the 
service, madam,” he explained to the wonder- 
ing lady beside them. 

"The service? Beg pardon, but I don’t 
understand. The child seemed to be alone 
and I tried to look after her a bit.” 

"Thank you fordoing so, I’m sure. The 
Express Service, I refer to. I’m the train 
agent between San Diego and Chicago ; she 
is under my care. There the agent of the 
other line takes her in charge. She’s billed 


30 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


through to Baltimore and no expense is to 
be spared by anybody concerned, that she 
makes the trip in safety and the greatest pos- 
sible comfort. We flatter ourselves, madam, 
that our company can fix the thing as it should 
be. She’s not the first little human 'parcel’ 
we ’ve handled successfully. Is there anything 
you ’d like, Miss ” — 

He paused, pulled a notebook from his 
pocket, discovered her name, and concluded : 

" Miss Josephine Smith? ” 

" Smith, Josephine Smith, singular ! ” mur- 
mured Mrs. Kimono, under her breath. " But 
not so singular after all. Smith is not an un- 
common name, nor Baltimore the only city 
where Smiths reside.” 

Meanwhile the express agent had taken 
Josephine’s hand in his, and was carefully 
guiding her back through the many carriages 
to the one where she belonged. His statement 
that Doctor Mack had put her into his care 
made her consider him an old friend, and loos- 
ened her tongue accordingly. 

Porter Bob received her with a smile, and 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 31 


asked if he had arranged her half of the section 
to her pleasure ; pointed out that Rudanthy’s 
attire had been duly brushed, and begged her 
not to hesitate about ringing for him whenever 
she needed him. 

By this time Mrs. Upper Berth, as the child 
mentally called her, had returned from her own 
breakfast and proved to be " not half so cross 
as you sounded, are you ? ” 

To which the lady replied with a laugh and 
the assurance that tired people were apt to be 
a " little crisp,” then added : 

"But I’ve heard all about you now, my 
dear ; and I ’m glad to have as section-mate 
such a dainty little ' parcel.’ I ’m sure we ’ll be 
the best of friends before we reach our parting- 
place at Chicago.” 

So they proved to be. So, indeed, did 
everybody in the car. " Little Parcel ” was 
made so much of by the grown-up travellers 
that she might have been spoiled had the journey 
continued longer than it did. But at Chicago 
a change was made. The express agent put 
her into a carriage, and whisked her away to 


% 


32 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


another station, another train, and a new, 
strange set of people. Not a face with which 
she had become familiar during the first stage 
of her long journey was visible. Even Bob had 
disappeared, and in his stead was a gray-haired 
porter who grumbled at each of the demands, 
such as it had become natural for her to make 
upon the friendly Bob. 

There was no Red Kimono in the section 
opposite ; not even a be-spectacled Upper Berth 
lady to make whimsical comments on her 
neighbors ; and the new agent to whom she 
had been transferred looked cross, as if he were 
in a dreadful hurry and hated to be bothered. 
Altogether things were changed for the worse, 
and Josephine’s heart would perhaps have 
broken if it had n’t been for the dear com- 
panionship of Rudanthy, who smiled and slept 
in a placid waxen manner that was restfully 
familiar. 

Besides, all journeys have an end ; and the 
six days’ trip of the little San Diegoan came to 
its own before the door of a stately mansion, 
gay with the red brick and white marble which 


I 


A HUMAN EXPRESS PARCEL. 


83 


mark most Baltimore homes, and the ring of an 
electric bell that the expressman touched : 

" A ' parcel ’ for Joseph Smith. Billed from 
San Diego, Cal. Live here, eh? ” 

It was a colored man in livery who replied : 

" Yes, suh. Mister Joseph Smith, he done 
live here, suh.” 

” Sign, please. That is, if you can write.” 

" Course I can write. I allays signs parcels 
for Mister Smith, suh. Where ’s the parcel at, 
suh? ” returned the liveried negro. 

" Sign. I ’ll fetch it,” came the prompt 
answer. 

Old Peter signed, being the trusted and 
trustworthy servant of his master, and returned 
the book to the agent’s hands, who himself 
returned to the carriage, lifted out Josephine 
and Rudanthy, conveyed them up the glistening 
steps, and left them to their fate. 


I 


CHAPTER m. 


ARRIVAL. 

Peter stared, but said nothing. Not even 
when the agent ran back from the carriage with 
a little satchel and a strap full of shawls and 
picture-books. The hack rolled away, the 
keen March wind chilled the young Californian, 
who stood, doll in hand, respectfully waiting 
admission to the warm hall beyond the door. 
Finally, since the servant seemed to have been 
stricken speechless, she found her own voice, 
and said : 

" Please, boy, I ’d like to see my Uncle Joe.” 

"Your — Uncle — Joe, little miss?” 

" That ’s what I said. I must come in. I’m 
very cold. If this is Baltimore, that the folks 
on the cars said was pretty, I guess they did n’t 
know what they were talking about. I want 
to come in, please.” 

34 


# 


ARRIVAL. 


85 


The old man found his wits returning. 
This was the queerest " parcel ” for which he 
had ever signed a receipt in an express-book, 
and he knew there was some mistake. Yet he 
could n’t withstand the pleading brown eyes 
under the scarlet hat, even if he had n’t been 
" raised ” to a habit of hospitality. 

" Suah, little lady. Come right in. ’T is 
dreadful cold out to-day. I ’most froze goin’ 
to market, an’ I ’se right down ashamed of 
myself leavin’ comp’ny waitin’ this way. Step 
right in the drawin’-room, little missy, and 
tell me who ’t is you ’d like to see.” 

Picking up the luggage that had been de- 
posited on the topmost of the gleaming marble 
steps, which, even in winter, unlike his neigh- 
bors, the master of the house disdained to hide 
beneath a wooden casing, the negro led the 
way into the luxurious parlor. To Josephine, 
fresh from the chill of the cloudy, windy day 
without, the whole place seemed aglow. A 
rosy light came through the red-curtained 
windows, shone from the open grate, repeated 
itself in the deep crimson carpet that was so 
delightfully soft and warm. 


36 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" Sit down by the fire, little lady. There. 
That ’s nice. Put your dolly right here. 
Maybe she’s cold, too. Now, then, suah 
you ’se fixed so fine you can tell me who ’t is 
you ’ve come to see,” said the man. 

" What is your name, boy?” inquired 
Josephine. 

"Peter, missy. My name’s Peter.” 

" Well, then, Peter, don’t be stupid. Or are 
you deaf, maybe? ” she asked. 

" Land, no, missy. I ’se got my hearin’ fust 
class,” he replied, somewhat indignantly. 

" I have come to see my Uncle Joe. I wish 
to see him now. Please tell him,” she com- 
manded. 

The negro scratched his gray wool and 
reflected. He had been born and raised in the 
service of the family where he still " officiated,” 
and knew its history thoroughly. His present 
master was the only son of an only son, and 
there had never been a daughter. No, nor 
wife, at least to this household. There w r ere 
cousins in plenty, with whom Mr. Joseph 
Smith was not on good terms. There were 


ARRIVAL . 


87 


property interests dividing them, and Mr. 
Joseph kept his vast wealth for his own use 
alone. Some thought he should have shared it 
with others, but he did not so think and lived 
his quiet life, with a trio of colored men- 
servants. His house was one of the best 
appointed on the wide avenue, but, also, one 
of the quietest. It was the first time that old 
Peter had ever heard a child’s voice in that 
great room, and its clear tones seemed to 
confuse him. 

" I want to see my Uncle Joe. I want to 
see him right away. Go, boy, and call him,” 
Josephine explained. 

This was command, and Peter was used to 
obey, so he replied : 

"All right, little missy, I’ll go see. Has 
you got your card? Who shall I say ’t is ? ” 

Josephine reflected. Once mamma had had 
some dear little visiting cards engraved with 
her small daughter’s name, and the child 
remembered with regret that if they had been 
packed with her "things ” at all, it must have 
been in the trunk, which the expressman said 


38 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


would arrive by and by from the railway station. 
She could merely say : 

"Uncles don’t need cards when their folks 
come to see them. I ’ve come from mamma. 
She ’s gone to the pickley land to see papa. 
Just tell him Josephine. What ’s that stuff 
out there ? ” 

She ran to the window, pulled the lace 
curtains apart, and peered out. The air was 
now full of great white flakes that whirled and 
skurried about as if in the wildest sort of play. 

"What is it, Peter? Quick, what is it?” 
she demanded. 

" Huh ! Don’t you know snow when you 
see it, little missy? Where you lived at all 
your born days?” he cried, surprised. 

" Oh, just snow. Course I ’ve seen it, 
coming here on the cars. It was on the 
ground, though, not in the air and the sky. 
I ’ve lived with mamma. Now I ’ve come to 
live with Uncle Joe. Why don’t you tell him? 
If a lady called to see my mamma do you 
s’pose big Bridget would n’t say so ? ” 

" I ’se goin’,” he said, and went. 


ARRIVAL . 


89 


But he was gone so long, and the expected 
uncle was so slow to welcome her, that even 
that beautiful room began to look dismal to the 
little stranger. The violent storm which had 
sprung up with such suddenness, darkened the 
air, and a terrible homesickness threatened to 
bring on a burst of tears. Then, all at once, 
Josephine remembered what Doctor Mack had 
said : • 

" Don’t be a weeper, little lady, whatever 
else you are. Be a smiler, like my Cousin 
Helen, your mamma. You ’re pretty small to 
tackle the woHd alone, but just do it with a 
laugh and it will laugh back upon you.” 

Not all of which she understood, though she 
recalled every one of the impressive words, 
but the " laughing part ” was plain enough. 

" Course, Rudanthy. No Uncle Joe would 
be glad to get a crying little girl to his house. 
I ’ll take off my coat and yours, darling. You 
are pretty tired, I guess. I wonder where 
they ’ll let us sleep, that black boy and my 
uncle. I hope the room will have a pretty 
fire in it, like this one. Don’t you?” 


40 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Rudanthy did not answer, but as Josephine 
laid her flat upon the carpet, to remove her 
travelling cloak, she immediately closed her 
waxen lids, and her little mother took this for 
assent. 

" Oh, you sweetest thing ! How I do love 
you!” 

There followed a close hug of the faithful 
doll, which was witnessed by a trio of colored 
men from a rear door, where they stood, open- 
eyed and mouthed, wondering what in the 
world the master would say when he returned 
and found this little trespasser upon his hearth- 
stone. 

When Rudanthy had been embraced, to the 
detriment of her jute ringlets and her mistress’ 
comfort, Josephine curled down on the rug 
before the grate to put the doll asleep, 
observing : 

" You’re so cold, Rudanthy. Colder than I 
am, even. Your precious hands are like ice. 
You must lie right hei’e close to the fire, ’tween 
me and it. By and by Uncle Joe will come 
and then — My! Won’t he be surprised? 


ARRIVAL, 


41 


That Peter boy is so dreadful stupid, like ’s 
not he ’ll forget to say a single word a, bout us. 
Never mind. He ’s my papa’s twin brother. 
Do you know what twins are, Rudanthy ? I do. 
Big Bridget’s sister ’s got a pair of them. 
They ’re two of a kind, though sometimes one 
of them is the other kind. I mean, you know, 
sometimes one twin is n’t a brother, it ’s a sis- 
ter. That ’s what hie; Bridget’s sister’s was. 
Oh, dear. I ’m tired. I ’m hungry. I liked 
it better on that nice first railway car where 
everybody took care of me and gave me 
sweeties. It’s terrible still here. 1 — I’m 
afraid I’m going to sleep.” 

In another moment the fear of the weary 
little traveller had become a fact. Rudanthy 
was already slumbering ; and, alas ! that was 
to prove the last of her many naps. But 
Josephine was unconscious of the grief awaiting 
her own awakening ; and, fortunately, too young 
to know what a different welcome should have 
been accorded herself by the relative she had 
come so far to visit. 

Peter peeped in, from time to time, found 


42 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


all peaceful, and retired in thankfulness for the 
temporary lull. He was trembling in his 
shoes against the hour when the master should 
return and find him so unfaithful to his trust 
as to have admitted that curly-haired intruder 
upon their dignified privacy. Yet he en- 
couraged himself with the reflection : 

" Well, no need cross in’ no bridges till you 
meet up with ’em, and this bridge ain’t a cross- 
in’ till Massa Joe’s key turns in that lock. 
Reckon I was guided to pick out that fine duck 
for dinner this night, I do. S’posin’, now, the 
market had been poor? Huh ! Every trouble 
sets better on a full stummick ’an a empty. 
Massa Joe’s powerful fond of duck, lessen it’s 
spoiled in the cookin’. I’ll go warn that ’Polio 
to be mighty careful it done to a turn.” 

Peter departed kitchenward, where he tarried 
gossipping over the small guest above stairs and 
the probable outcome of her advent . 

" Nobody what ’s a Christian goin’ to turn a 
little gell outen their doors such an evenin’ as 
this,” said Apollo, deftly basting the fowl in 
the pan. 



" I M JOSEPHINE ! " 


* 



















































































I 











ARRIVAL. 


48 


"Mebbe not, mebbe not. But I reckon we 
can’t, none of us, callate on whatever Massa 
Joe ’s goin’ to do about anything till he does it. 
He ’s off to a board meeting, this evening, and 
I hope he sets on it comfortable. When them 
boards are too hard, like, he comes home 
mighty ’rascible. Keep a right smart watch 
on that bird, ’Polio, won’t you? whiles I go 
lay the table.” 

But here another question arose to puzzle 
the old man. Should he, or should he not, 
prepare that table for the unexpected guest? 
There was nobody more particular than Mr. 
Smith that all his orders should be obeyed to 
the letter. Each evening he wished his dinner 
to be served after one prescribed fashion, and 
any infraction of his rules brought a reprimand 
to Peter. 

However, in this case he determined to 
risk a little for hospitality’s sake, reflecting 
that if the master were displeased he could 
whisk off the extra plate before it was discov- 
ered. 

" Massa Joe ’s just as like to scold if I don’t 


44 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


put it on as if I do. Never allays account for 
what ’ll please him best. Depends on how he 
takes it.” 

Busy in his dining-room he did not hear the 
cab roll over the snowy street and stop at the 
door, nor the turn of the key in the lock. Nor, 
lost in his own thoughts, did the master of the 
house summon a servant to help him off with 
his coat and overshoes. He repaired immedi- 
ately to his library, arranged a few papers, 
went to his dressing-room and attired himself 
for dinner, with the carefulness to which he 
had been trained from childhood, and afterward 
strolled leisurely toward the great parlor, 
turned on the electric light, and paused upon 
its threshold amazed, exclaiming : 

" What is this ? What in the world is — 
this?” 

The sudden radiance which touched her eye- 
lids, rather than his startled exclamation, 
roused small Josephine from her restful nap. 
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, which brightened 
with a radiance beyond that of electricity, and 
sprang to her feet. With outstretched arms 


ARRIVAL . 


45 


she flung herself upon the astonished gentleman, 
crying : 

" Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man ! You 
darling, precious Uncle Joe ! I’m Josephine ! 
I ’ye come ! ” 


CHAPTEE IV. 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 

" So I perceive ! ” responded the master of 
the house, when he could rally from this on- 
slaught of affection. " I ’in sure I ’m very 
pleased to welcome you. I — when — how 
did you arrive ? ” 

" I ’m a ’xpress ' parcel,’ ” she answered, 
laughing, for she had learned before this that 
she had made her long journey in rather an 
unusual fashion. w Mamma had to go away on 
the peacock-blue ocean ; and Doctor Mack 
could n’t bother with me, ’cause he ’s going to 
the folks that eat almonds together and give 
presents ; and there was n’t anybody else ’xcept 
big Bridget, and she ’d spent all her money, 
and mamma said you would n’t want a ' wild 
Irish girl ’ to plague you. Would you? ” 

" I ’in not fond of being plagued by any- 
46 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 


47 


body,” said the gentleman, rather dryly. He 
was puzzled as much by her odd talk as her 
unexpected appearance, and wondered if chil- 
dren so young were ever lunatics. The better 
to consider the matter he sat down in the near- 
est chair, and instantly Josephine was upon 
his knee. The sensation this gave him was 
most peculiar. He did n’t remember that he 
had ever taken any child on his lap, yet 
permitted this one to remain there, because he 
did n’t know what better to do. He had heard 
that one should treat a lunatic as if all vagaries 
were real. Opposition only made an insane 
person worse. What worse could this little 
crazy creature, with the lovely face and dread- 
ful manners, do to a finical old bachelor in even- 
ing clothes than crush the creases out of his 
trouser knees ? 

The lap was not as comfortable as Doctor 
Mack’s, and far, far from as cosey as mamma’s. 
Uncle Joe’s long legs had a downward slant to 
them that made Josephine’s perch upon them 
rather uncertain. After sliding toward the 
floor once or twice, and hitching up again, she 


48 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


slipped to her feet and leaned affectionately 
against his shoulder, saying : 

" That ’s better. I guess you ’re not used to 
holding little girls, are you, Uncle Joe?” 

"No, Josephine. What is your other name ? ” 
said he. 

" Smith. Just like yours. You ’re my papa’s 
dear twin, you know.” 

"Oh, am I?” he asked. 

"Course. Didn’t you know that? How 
funny. That ’s because you have n’t mamma to 
remind you, I s’pose. Mamma remembers 
everything. Mamma never is naughty. Mamma 
knows everything. Mamma is dear, dear, dear. 
And, oh, I want her, I want her ! ” 

Josephine’s arms went round the gentleman’s 
neck, and her tears fell freely upon his spotless 
shirt front. She had been very brave, she had 
done what she promised Doctor Mack, and kept 
a " laughing front ” as long as she could ; but 
now here, in the home of her papa’s twin, with 
her "own folks,” her self-control gave way, and 
she cried as she had never cried before in all 
her short and happy life. 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 


49 


Mr. Smith was hopelessly distressed. He 
did n’t know what to say or do, and this proved 
most fortunate for both of them. For whatever 
he might have said would have puzzled his 
visitor as greatly as she was puzzling him. 
Happily for both, the deluge of tears was soon 
over, and Josephine lifted a face on which the 
smiles seemed all the brighter because of the 
moisture that still bedewed it. 

" Please ’xcuse me, Uncle Joe. I did n’t 
mean to cry once, but it — it ’s so lovely to have 
you at last. It was a long, long way on the 
railway, uncle. Rudanthy got terribly tired,” 
explained the visitor. 

" Did she? M r ho is Rudanthy? ” 

You, my uncle, yet don’t know Rudanthy, 
that has been mine ever since I was ? Mamma 
says she has to change heads now and then, 
and once in a while she buys her a new 
pair of feet or hands ; but it ’s the same dar- 
ling dolly, whether her head ’s new or old. 
I ’ll fetch her. It ’s time she waked up, any- 
way.” 

Josephine sped to the rug before the grate, 


50 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


stooped to lift her playmate, paused, and 
uttered a terrified cry. 

"Uncle! Uncle Joe, come here quick — 
quick ! ” 

Smiling at his own acquiescence, the gentle- 
man obeyed her demand, and stooped over her 
as she also bent above the object on the rug. 
All that was left of poor Rudanthy — who had 
travelled three thousand miles to be melted into 
a shapeless mass before the first hearth-fire 
which received her. 

Josephine did not cry now. This was a 
trouble too deep for tears. 

"What ails her, Uncle Joe? I never, never 
saw her look like that. Her nose and her lips 
and her cheeks are all flattened out, and her 
eyes — her eyes are just round glass balls. 
Her lovely curls ” — The little hands flew to 
the top of the speaker’s own head, but found 
no change there. Yet she looked up rather 
anxiously into the face above her. " Do you 
s’pose I ’d have got to look that dreadful way 
if I had n’t waked up when I did, Uncle Joe? ” 

"No, Josephine. No, indeed. Your un- 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS, 


51 


happy Rudanthy was a waxen young person 
who was indiscreet enough to lie down before 
an open fire. You seem to be real flesh and 
blood, and might easily scorch, yet would hardly 
melt. Next time you take a nap, however, I ’d 
advise you to lie on a lounge or a bed.” 

"I will. I would n’t like to look like her. 
But what shall I do ? I don’t know a store 
here,” she wailed. 

"I do. I might be able to find you a new 
doll, if you won’t cry,” came the answer which 
surprised himself. 

"Oh, I shan’t cry any more. Never any 
more — if I can help it. That’s a promise. 
But I should n’t want a new doll. I only want 
a head. Poor Rudanthy ! Do you s’pose she 
suffered much ? ” was the next anxious ques- 
tion. 

" It ’s not likely. But let Rudanthy lie yon- 
der on the cool window sill. I want to talk 
with you. I want you to answer a few ques- 
tions. Sit down by me, please. Is this com- 
fortable ? ” 

Josephine sank into the midst of the cushions 


52 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


he piled for her on the wide sofa and sighed 
luxuriously, answering : 

" It ’s lovely. This is the nicest place I ever, 
ever saw.” 

" Thank you. Now, child, tell me something 
about other places you remember, and, also, 
please tell me your name.” 

J osephine was surprised. What a very short 
memory this uncle had, to be sure. It would n’t 
be polite to say so, though, and it was an easy 
question to answer. 

" My name is Josephine Smith. I ’m named 
after you, you know, ’cause you ’re my papa’s 
twin. I ’m sent to you because ” — and she went 
on to explain the reasons, so far as she under- 
stood them, of her long journey and her pres- 
ence in his house. She brought her coat and 
showed him, neatly sewed inside its flap, a 
square of glazed holland on which was written 
her name, to whom consigned, and the express 
company by whicji she had been "specially 
shipped and delivered.” 

It was all plain and straightforward. This 
was the very house designated on the tag, and 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 53 

\ * l . ^ # 

he was Joseph Smith ; but it was, also, a rid- 
dle too deep for him to guess. 

"I see, I see. Well, since you are here we 
must make the best of it. I think there ’s a 
mistake, but I dare say the morning will set 
it all right. Meanwhile, it ’s snowing too fast 
to make any inquiries to-night. It is about 
dinner time, for me. Have you had your din- 
ner? ” asked the host. 

”1 had one on the train. That seems a 
great while ago,” said the guest. 

" I beg pardon, but I think there is a little 
smut upon your pretty nose. After a railway 
journey travellers usually like to wash up, and 
so on. I don’t know much about little girls, 
yet ” — he rather timidly suggested. 

"I should be so glad. Just see my hands, 
Uncle Joe ! ” and she extended a pair of plump 
palms which sadly needed soap and water. 

" I ’m not your ” — he began, meaning to set 
her right concerning their relationship ; then 
thought better of it. What would a child do 
who had come to visit an unknown uncle and 
found herself in the home of a stranger? 


54 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Weep, most likely. He didn’t want that. 
He ’d had enough of tears, as witness one 
spoiled shirt-front. He began also to change 
his mind regarding the little one’s manners. 
She had evidently lived with gentlefolks and 
when some one came to claim her in the 
morning he would wish them to understand 
that she had been treated courteously. 

So he rang for Peter, who appeared as sud- 
denly as if he had come from the hall without. 

"Been listening at the doorway, boy? Take 
care. Go up to the guest room, turn on the 
heat and light, and see that there are plenty ot 
fresh towels. Take this young lady’s things 
with you. She will probably spend the night 
here. I hope you have a decent dinner pro- 
vided.” 

"Fine, Massa Joe. Just supreme. Yes, 
suh. Certainly, suh,” answered the servant. 

"Uncle Joe, is there a bathroom in this 
house?” asked she. 

" Three of them, Josephine.” 

" May I use one ? I have n ’t had a bath since 
I was in San Diego, and I ’m — mamma would 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 


55 


not allow me at table, I guess ; I ’m dreadful 
dirty.” 

If Josephine had tried to find the shortest 
way to Mr. Smith’s heart she could not have 
chosen more wisely. 

"To be sure, to be sure. Peter, make a 
bath ready next the guest room. Will an 
hour give you time enough, little lady?” 

" I don’t want so long. I ’in so gl ad I 
learned to dress myself, are n’t you ? ’Cause 
all the women to this house seem to be men, 
don’t they ? ” 

"Yes, child. Poor, unfortunate house ! ” 

" It ’s a beautiful house, Uncle Joe ; and you 
need n’t care any more. I ’ve come, now. I, 
Josephine. I ’ll take care of you. Good-by. 
When you see me again I ’ll be looking lovely, 
’cause I ’ll put on the new white wool dress 
that mamma embroidered with forget-me- 
nots.” 

"Vanity!” thought Mr. Smith, regretfully, 
which shows that he did n’t as yet understand 
his little visitor, whose "lovely” referred to 
her clothes alone, and not at all to herself. 


56 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


The dinner hour at 1000 Bismarck Avenue 
was precisely half-past six. Even for the 
most notable of the few guests entertained by 
the master of the house he rarely delayed more 
than five minutes, and on no occasion had it 
been served a moment earlier. The old-fash- 
ioned hall clock had ticked the hour for gener- 
ations of Smiths "from Virginia,” and was 
regulated nowadays by the tower timepiece 
at Mt. Koyal station. It was fortunate for 
Josephine that just as the minute hand dropped 
to its place, midway between the six and seven 
on the dial, she came tripping down the wide 
stair, radiant from her bath and the comfort of 
fresh clothing, and eager to be again with the 
handsome Uncle Joe, who was waiting for her 
at the stair’s foot with some impatience. 

Her promptness pleased him, and the un- 
common vision of her childish loveliness 
pleased him even more. He had believed that 
he disliked children, but was now inclined to 
change his opinion. 

" I ’m glad you are punctual, Miss Josephine, 
else I ’d have had to begin my dinner without 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS . 


57 


you. I never put back meals for anybody,” 
he remarked. 

" W ould you ? Don’t you ? Then I ’m glad, 
too. Is n’t the frock pretty? My mamma 
worked all these flowers with her own little 
white hands. I love it. I had to kiss them 
before I could put it on,” she said, again lifting 
her skirt and touching it with her lips. 

" I suppose you love your mamma very 
dearly. What is she like ? ” 

He was leading her along the hall toward the 
dining-room, and Peter, standing within its en- 
trance, congratulated himself that he had laid 
the table for two. He glanced at his master’s 
face, found it good-natured and interested, and 
took his own cue therefrom. 

" She is like — she is like the most beautiful 
thing in the world, dear Uncle Joe. Don’t 
you remember ? ” asked the astonished child. 

"Well, no, not exactly.” 

"That’s a pity, and you my papa’s twin. 
Papa has n’t nice gray hair like yours, though, 
and there is n’t any shiny bare place on top of 
his head. I mean there was n’t when he went 


58 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


away last year. His hair was dark, like mam- 
ma’s, and his mustache was brown and curly. 
I think he is n’t as big as you, Uncle Joe, and 
his clothes are gray, with buttony fixings on 
them. He has a beautiful sash around his 
waist, sometimes, and lovely shoulder trim- 
mings. He ’s an officer, my papa is, in Com- 
pany F. That ’s for ’musement, mamma says. 
For the business, he’s a ’lectrickeller. Is this 
my place? Thank you, Peter.” 

Mr. Smith handed his little visitor to her 
chair, which the old butler had pulled back for 
her, with the same courtly manner he would 
have shown the pastor’s wife. Indeed, if he 
had been asked he would have admitted that 
he found the present guest the more interesting 
of the two. 

Peter made ready to serve the soup, but a 
look from the strange child restrained him. 
She added a word to the look : 

"Why, boy, you forgot. Uncle Joe hasn’t 
said the grace yet.” 

Now, Mr. Smith was a faithful and devout 
church member, but was in the habit of omit- 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 


59 


ting this little ceremony at his solitary meals. 
He was disconcerted for the moment, but pres- 
ently bowed his head and repeated the formula 
to which he had been accustomed in his youth. 
It proved to be the same that the little girl was 
used to hearing from her own parents’ lips, and 
she believed it to be the ordinary habit of every 
household. She did not dream that she had 
instituted a new order of things, and unfolded 
her napkin with a smile, saying : 

" Now, I ’m dreadful hungry, Uncle Joe. 
Are you ? ” 

" I believe I am, little one.” 

Peter served with much dignity and flourish ; 
but Josephine had dined at hotel tables often 
enough to accept his attentions as a matter of 
course. Her quiet behavior, her daintiness, 
and her chatter, amused and delighted her host. 
He found himself in a much better humor than 
when he returned through the storm from an 
unsatisfactory board meeting, and was grateful 
for the mischance which had brought him such 
pleasant company. 

As for old Peter, his dark face glowed with 


60 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


enthusiasm. He was deeply religious, and 
now believed that this unknown child had 
been sent by heaven itself to gladden their 
big, empty house. He didn’t understand 
how his master could be "uncle” to any- 
body, yet, since that master accepted the fact 
so genially, he was only too glad to do like- 
wise. 

It was a fine and stately dinner, and as course 
after course was served, Josephine’s wonder 
grew, till she had to inquire : 

"Is it like this always, to your home, Uncle 
Joe?” 

" What do you mean? ” he asked. 

" Such a birthday table, and no folks, ’xcept 
you and me.” 

" It is the same, usually, unless Peter fails 
to find a good market. Have you finished? 
No more cream or cake?” he explained and 
questioned. 

"No, thank you. I ’m never asked to take 
two helpings. Only on the car I had three, 
sometimes, though I did n’t eat them. Mamma 
would n’t have liked it.” 


A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS. 


61 


" And do you always remember what ' mam- 
ma ’ wishes ? ” 

"No. I’m a terrible forgetter. But I try. 
Somehow it’s easier now I can’t see her,” she 
answered. 

" Quite natural. Suppose we go into the 
library for a little while. I want to consult 
the directory.” 

She clasped his hand, looked up confidingly, 
but felt as if she should fall asleep on the way 
thither. She wondered if it ever came bedtime 
in that house, and how many hours had passed 
since she entered it. 

"There, Miss Josephine, I think you’ll find 
that chair a comfortable one,” said the host, 
when they had reached the library, rich with 
all that is desirable in such a room. " Do you 
like pictures ? ” 

"Oh, I love them ! ” 

" That ’s good. So do I. I ’ll get you 
some.” 

But Mr, Smith was not used to the " loves” 
of little girls, and his selection was made rather 
because he wanted to see how she would handle 


62 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


a book than because he thought about the sub- 
ject chosen. A volume of Dore's grotesque 
drawings happened to be in most shabby con- 
dition, and he reflected that she " could n’t hurt 
that much, anyway, for it’s to be rebound.” 

Afterward he opened the directory for him- 
self, and Josephine thought it a dull-looking 
book. For some time both were interested 
and silent ; then Uncle Joe cried out with 
startling suddenness : 

" Three thousand Smiths in this little city ; 
and seventy-five of them are Josephs! Well, 
my child, you ’re mighty rich in ' uncles ’ ! ” 


CHAPTER Y. 


A WILD MARCH MORNING. 

Josephine was half-asleep. A woman 
would have thought about her fatigue and sent 
her early to bed. ” Uncle Joe” thought of 
nothing now save the array of common and 
uncommon names in the city directory. He 
counted and recounted the " Smiths,” " Smyths,” 
and " Smythes,” and jotted down his figures in 
a notebook. He copied, also, any address of 
any Smith whose residence was in a locality 
which he considered suitable for relatives of his 
small guest. He became so absorbed in this 
study that an hour had passed before he re- 
membered her, and the extraordinary quiet of 
her lively tongue. 

Josephine had dozed and waked, dozed and 
waked, and dreamed many dreams during that 
hour of silence. Her tired little brain was all 
63 


64 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


confused with the weird pictures of tortured 
men gazing at her from the trunks of gnarled 
trees, and thoughts of a myriad of uncles, each 
wearing eyeglasses, and sitting with glistening 
bald head beneath a brilliant li^ht. The lkdit 
dazzled her, the dreams terrified her, and the 
little face that dropped at length upon the open 
page of the great folio was drawn and dis- 
tressed. 

"For goodness sake! I suppose she’s 
sleepy. I believe that children do go to bed 
early. At least they should. If I ’m to be a 
correct sort of ' uncle,’ even for one night, I 
must get her there. I wonder how ! ” con- 
sidered the gentleman. 

The first thing was to wake her, and he 
attempted it, saying : 

" Josephine ! Josephine ! ” 

The child stirred uneasily, but slumbered 
on. 

" Uncle Joe ” laid his hand upon her shoulder 
rather gingerly. He was much more afraid of 
her than she could ever be of him. 

" Miss Josephine ! If you please, wake up.” 


A WILD MARCH MORNING. (6b 

She responded with a suddenness that startled 
him. 

" Why — where am I ? Oh ! I know. Did I 
go to sleep, Uncle Joe?” 

"I should judge that you did. Would you 
like to go to bed? ” 

" If you please, uncle.” 

He smiled faintly at the odd situation in 
which he found himself, playing nurse to a 
little girl. A boy would have been less dis- 
concerting, for he had been a boy himself, 
once, and remembered his childhood. But he 
had never been a little girl, had never lived in 
a house with a little girl, and did n’t know how 
little girls expected to be treated. He volun- 
teered one question : 

" If somebody takes you to your room, could 
you — could you do the rest for yourself, 
J osephine ? ” 

" Why, course. I began when I was eight 
years old. That was my last birthday that 
ever was. Big Bridget was not to wait on me 
any more after that, mamma said. But she 
did. She loved it. Mamma, even, loved it, 


66 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


too. And nobody need go upstairs with me. 
I know the way. I remember it all. If — 
May I say my prayers by you, Uncle Joe? 
Mamma ” — 

One glance about the strange room, one 
thought of the absent mother, and the little 
girl’s lip quivered. Then came a second 
thought, and she remembered her promise. 
She was never to cry again, if she could help 
it. By winking very fast and thinking about 
other things than mamma and home she would 
be able to help it. 

Before he touched her shoulder to wake her, 
Mr. Smith had rung for Peter, who now stood 
waiting orders in the parting of the portiere, 
and beheld a sight such as he had never 
dreamed to see in that great, lonely house : 
Josephine kneeling reverently beside his mas- 
ter’s knee, saying aloud the Lord’s Prayer and 
the familiar "Now I lay me.” 

Then she rose, flung her arms about the 
gentleman’s neck, saw the moisture in his eyes, 
and asked in surprise : 

"Do you feel bad, Uncle Joe? Are n’t you 





"NOW I LAY ME." 





A WILD MARCH MORNING . 


67 


happy, Uncle Joe? Can’t I help you, you 
dear, dear man ? ” 

The "dear” man’s arms went round the 
little figure, and he drew it close to his lonely 
heart with a jealous wish that he might always 
keep it there. All at once he felt that he 
hated that other unknown, rightful uncle to 
whom this charming "parcel” belonged, and 
almost he wished that no such person might 
ever be found. Then he unclasped her cling- 
ing arms and — actually kissed her ! 

" You are helping me very greatly, Josephine. 
You are a dear child. Peter will see that your 
room is all right for the night. Tell him any- 
thing you need and he ’ll get it for you. Good- 
night, little girl.” 

"Good-night, Uncle Joe. Dear Uncle Joe. 
I think — I think you are just too sweet for 
words ! I hope you ’ll rest well. Good-night.” 

She vanished through the curtains, looking 
back and kissing her finger-tips to him, and 
smiling trustingly upon him to the last. But 
the old man sat long looking after her before 
he turned again to his books, reflecting : 


G8 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


” Strange ! Only a few hours of a child’s 
presence in this silent place, yet it seems trans- 
figured. 'An angel’s visit,’ maybe. To show 
me that, after all, I am something softer and 
more human than the crusty old bachelor I 
thought myself. What would her mother say, 
that absent, perfect ' mamma,’ if she knew into 
what strange hands her darling had fallen? 
Of course, my first duty to-morrow is to hunt 
up this mislaid uncle of little Josephine’s and 
restore her to him. But — Well, it’s my duty, 
and of course I shall do it.” 

The great bed in the guest room was big 
enough, Josephine thought, to have held 
mamma herself, and even big Bridget without 
crowding. It was far softer than her own 
little white cot in the San Diegan cottage, and 
plunged in its great depths the small traveller 
instantly fell asleep. She did not hear Peter 
come in and lower the light, and knew nothing 
more, indeed, till morning. Then she roused 
with a confused feeling, not quite realizing 
where she was or what had happened to her. 
For a few moments she lay still, expecting 


cl WILD MARCH MORNING. 


69 


mamma’s or big Bridget’s face to appear 
beneath the silken curtains which draped the 
bed’s head ; then she remembered everything, 
and that in a house without women she was 
bound to do all things for herself. 

"But it’s dreadful dark everywhere. I 
guess I don’t like such thick curtains as Uncle 
Joe has. Mamma’s are thin white ones and 
it ’s always sunshiny at home — ’xcept when it 
is n’t. That ’s only when the rains come, and 
that ’s most always the nicest of all. Then we 
have a dear little fire in the grate, and mamma 
reads to me, and big Bridget bakes and cooks 
the best things. We write letters to papa, 
and mamma sings and plays, and — it’s just 
lovely! Never mind, Josephine. You’ll be 
back there soon ’s papa gets well again, and 
Uncle Joe was sort of cryey round his eyes 
last night. Mamma said I was to be like his 
own little daughter to him and take care of 
him and never make him any trouble. So I 
will.” 

There was no prouder child in that city that 
morning than the little stranger within its 


70 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


gates. She prepared her bath without aid, 
brushed her hair and dressed herself entirely. 
It was true that her curls did not look much as 
they did after mamma’s loving fingers had 
handled them, and the less said about those on 
the back of her head the better. Nor were the 
buttons in the right places to match the but- 
tonholes, and the result was that the little 
frock which had always been so tidy hung at a 
curious angle from its wearer’s shoulders. 

But who ’d mind a trifle like that, in a 
beginner? 

Not Uncle Joe, who saw only the fair front 
of his visitor, as she ran down the hall to meet 
him, emerging from his own chamber. In- 
deed, he was not now in a mood to observe 
anything save himself, though he answered 
Josephine’s gay "Good-morning ” with another 
rather grimly spoken. 

The child paused, astonished. There were 
no longer tears in his eyes, but he looked as 
if a "good cry” would be relief. His face 
was distorted with pain, and every time he put 
one of his feet to the floor he winced as if it hurt 


A WILD MARCH MORNING. 


71 


him. He seemed as dim and glum as the day 
outside, and that was dreary beyond anything 
the little Californian had ever seen. The 
snow had fallen steadily all the night, and the 
avenue was almost impassable. A few milk- 
carts forced their way along, and a man in a 
gray uniform, with a leather bag over his 
shoulder, was wading up each flight of steps to 
the doorways above them and handing in the 
morning mail. 

"Aren’t you well, Uncle Joe? Did n’t you 
rest well ? ” she inquired solicitously. 

"No, I ’ve got that wretched old gout again,” 
he snapped. 

"What ’s that?” 

"It ’s a horrible, useless, nerve-racking 'mis- 
ery’ in my foot. It ’s being out in that storm 
yesterday, and this senseless heap of snow on 
the ground. March is supposed to be spring, 
but this beastly climate does n’t know what 
spring means. Ugh ! ” he groaned. 

"Doesn’t it?” she asked, amazed by this 
statement. 

" Hum, child. There ’s no need of your re- 


72 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


peating everything I say in another question. 
I ’m always cross when I’m gouty. Don’t heed 
me. Just enjoy yourself the best you can, for 
I don’t see how I ’m to hunt up your uncle for 
you in such weather.” 

Josephine thought he was talking queerly, 
but said nothing ; only followed him slowly to 
the breakfast room, which Peter had done his 
best to make cheerful. 

Mr. Smith sat down at table and began to 
open the pile of letters which lay beside his 
plate. Then he unfolded his newspaper, looked 
at a few items, and sipped his coffee. He had 
forgotten Josephine, though she had not for- 
gotten him, and sat waiting until such time as 
it should please him to ask the blessing. 

For the sake of her patient yet eager face, 
Peter took an unheard-of liberty : he nudged 
his master’s shoulder. 

" Hey ? What ? Peter ! ” angrily demanded 
Mr. Smith. 

"Yes, suh. Certainly, suh. But I reckon 
little missy won’t eat withouten it.” 

It was almost as disagreeable to the gentle- 


A WILD MARCH MORNING. 


73 


man to be reminded of his duty, and that, too, 
by a servant, as to suffer his present physical 
pangs. But he swallowed the lesson with the 
remainder of his coffee, and bowed his head, 
resolving that never asrain while that brown- 
eyed child sat opposite him should such a re- 
minder be necessary. 

As before, with the conclusion of the simple 
grace, Josephine’s tongue and appetite were 
released from guard, and she commented : 

" This is an awful funny Baltimore, is n’t it ? ” 

" I don’t know. Do you always state a thing 
and then ask it?” returned Uncle Joe, crisply. 

"I ’xpect I do ask a heap of questions. 
Mamma has to correct me sometimes. But I 
can’t help it, can I ? How shall I know things 
I don’t know if I don’t ask folks that do know, 
you know ? ” 

" You ’ll be a very knowing young person if 
you keep on,” said he. 

" Oh ! I want to be. I want to know every 
single thing there is in the whole world. Papa 
used to say there was a ' why ’ always, and I 
like to find out the ' whys.’ ” 


74 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" I believe you. Peter, another chop, please.” 

" With your foot, Massa Joe? ” remonstrated 
the butler. 

" No. With my roll and fresh cup of coffee,” 
was the retort. 

" Excuse me, Massa Joe, but you told me 
last time that next time I was to remember you 
’bout the doctor saying ' no meat with the 
gout.’ ” 

" Doctors know little. I ’m hungry. If I Ve 
got to suffer I might as well be hung for a sheep 
as a lamb. I’ve already eaten two chops. An- 
other, Peter, and a juicy one.” 

The order was obeyed, though the old negro 
knew that soon he would be reprimanded as 
much for yielding to his master’s whim as he 
had already been for opposing it. 

" Doctor Mack knows everything,” said Jose- 
phine. 

" Huh ! Everybody belonging to you is per- 
fect, I conclude,” said the host, with some sar- 
casm. 

"I don’t like him, though. Not very well. 
He gives me medicine sometimes, though 


A WILD MARCH MORNING . 


75 


mamma says I don’t need it. I’m glad he ’s 
gone to eat those philopenas. Are n’t you? ” 

" I don’t care a rap where he goes,” answered 
Uncle Joe testily. 

Josephine opened her eyes to their widest. 
This old man in the soiled green dressing-gown, 
unshaven, frowning and wincing in a horrible 
manner, was like another person to the hand- 
some gentleman with whom she had dined over- 
night. He was not half so agreeable, and — 
Well, mamma often said that nobody in this 
world had a right to be " cross ” and make 
themselves unpleasant to other people. She 
was sorry for poor Uncle Joe, and remembered 
that he had not had the advantage of mamma’s 
society and wisdom. 

"Uncle Joe, you look just like one of them 
picture-men that was shut up in a tree trunk. 
You know. You showed them to me last night. 
I wish you would n’t make up such a face,” she 
observed. 

Mr. Smith’s mouth flew open in sheer amaze- 
ment, while Peter tossed his hands aloft and 
rolled his eyes till the whites alone were visible. 


76 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


In all his service he had never heard anybody 
dare to speak so plainly to his master, whose 
temper was none of the mildest. He dreaded 
what would follow, and was more astonished 
than ever when it proved to be a quiet : 

" Humph ! Children and fools speak truth, 
’t is said. You ’re a sharp-eyed, unflattering 
little lady, Miss Josephine ; but I ’ll try to con- 
trol my ugly visage for your benefit.” 

The tone in which this was said, rather than 
the words themselves, was a reproof to the 
child, who immediately left her place, ran to 
her uncle’s side, and laid her hand pleadingly 
upon his arm. 

" Please forgive me, poor Uncle Joe. I 
guess that was saucy. I — I did n’t think. 
That ’s a way I have. I say things first, and 
think them afterward. I guess it is n’t a nice 
way. I ’ll try to get over that. My ! won’t 
that be fun ? You trying not to make up faces, 
and I trying not to say wrong things. I ’ll tell 
you. Have you got a little box anywhere? ” 

"Yes, I presume so. Go eat your break- 
fast, child. Why?” 


A WILD MARCH MORNING. 


77 


" ’Cause. Did you know there was heath- 
ens?” she asked gravely. 

" I ’ve heard so. I ’ve met a few.” 

"You have? How delightful!” came the 
swift exclamation. 

" I did n’t find it so. Why, I say? ” he in- 
quired. 

" Each of us that forgot and broke over must 
put a penny, a cent, I mean, in the box. It 
must be shut tight, and the cover gum-muci- 
laged down. You must make a hole in the 
cover with your penknife, and when you screw 
up your face, just for nothing, you put a penny 
in. I ’ll watch and tell you. Then I ’ll put 
one in when I say wrong things. I ’ve a lot of 
money in my satchel. Mamma and Doctor 
Mack each gave me some to buy things on the 
way. But there was n’t anything to buy, and 
I can use it all, only for Rudanthy’s new head. 
Can we go buy that to-day, Uncle Joe? ” 

"No. Nobody knows when I’ll get out 
again, if this weather holds. The idea of a 
snowstorm like this in March. In March 1 ” 
angrily. 


78 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" Yes, suh,” responded Peter respectfully, 
since some reply seemed expected. 

" Here, boy. Carry my mail to the library. 
Get a good heat on. Fetch that old soft shawl 
I put over my foot when it ’s bad, and, for 
goodness sake, keep that child out of the way 
and contented, somehow.” 

Josephine had gone to the window, pulled 
the draperies apart, and was looking out on a 
very different world from any she had ever 
seen. White was every object on which her 
eye rested, save the red fronts of the houses, 
and even these were festooned with snowy 
wreaths wherever such could find a resting 
place. The scene impressed and almost fright- 
ened her ; but when, presently, it stopped 
snowing, and a boy ran out from a neighboring 
house, dragging a red sled through the drifts, 
her spirits rose. It had been one long, long 
week since she had exchanged a single word 
with any child, and this was an opportunity to 
be improved. She darted from the room, sped 
to the hall door, which stood ajar for Lafayette’s 


A WILD MARCH MORNING. 


79 


convenience in clearing off the steps, and 
dashed outward. 

Her feet sank deep into the cold, soft stuff, 
but she did n’t even notice that, as she cried, 
eagerly : 

" Little boy ! Oh, little boy ! Come here 
quick ! I want somebody to play with me.” 

A moment’s pause of surprise, that a child 
should issue from " old Mr. Smith’s,” and the 
answer came cheerily back : 

" Wish I could ; but I ’m going sledding.” 

" I ’ll go with you ! I never went a-sledding 
in all my ” — 

The sentence was never finished, for some- 
body jerked her forcibly back within doors just 
as a great express wagon crawled to a pause 
before the entrance. 


CHAPTER VI. 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES. 

" My trank ! my trunk ! My darling little 
blue trunk ! ” 

" Massa J oe says for you to go right straight 
back to the library, missy. He says you done 
get the pneumony, cuttin’ up that way in the 
snow, and you not raised in it. He says not 
to let that boy in here. I — I’s sorry to dis- 
oblige any little lady what ’s a- visitin' of us, 
but ” — 

" It ’s my trunk, Peter. Don’t you hear?” 

" Yes, missy. But Lafayette, that ’s his 
business, hauling luggage. I ’se the butler, I 
is.” 

Josephine retreated a few paces from the 
door. She had lived in the open air, but had 
never felt it pinch her nose as this did. Her 
feet, also, were cold, and growing wet from the 


80 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES. 


81 


snow which was melting on them. But Peter 
was attending to that. He was wiping them 
carefully with his red handkerchief, and Jose- 
phine lifted first one, then the other, in silent 
obedience to his touch. But her interest was 
wholly in the trunk, which had now been de- 
posited in the vestibule, and from which Lafay- 
ette was carefully removing all particles of 
snow before he carried it up over the carpeted 
stair. 

Mr. Smith limped to the library door and 
looked out. He had meant to send word that 
the trunk should be retained at the railway 
station for the present, or until he should find 
out to whom Josephine had really been "con- 
signed,” and asked, in vexation : 

" Come already, has it? Humph ! If it had 
been something I wanted in a hurry, they ’d 
have taken their own time about delivering it. 
Said they could n’t handle goods in a storm, 
and such nonsense. I don’t see, Peter, as it 
need be taken upstairs. Have it put in the 
storeroom, where it will be handier to get at 
when she leaves.” 


82 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Both Peter and Josephine heard him with 
amazement. 

"What is that, Uncle Joe? That 'when I 
leave.’ Have I — have I been so — so saucy 
and forgetful that — that you can’t let me stay ? ” 

"No, no, child. I merely meant — There, 
don’t look so distressed. You are here for the 
day, anyway, because none of us can go trudg- 
ing about in such weather. I ’ll telephone for — 
There. No matter. It ’s right. It ’s all right. 
Don’t, for goodness sake, cry. Anything, any- 
thing but that. Ugh ! my foot. I must get 
out of this draught,” he almost yelled. 

Josephine was very grave. She walked 
quietly to Uncle Joe’s side, and clasped the 
hand which did not hold a cane with both her 
own. 

"It’s dreadful funny, seems to me. Are n’t 
we going to stay in this house all the time ? I 
wish — I’m sorry I spoke about the box and 
the heatheny money. But if you don’t mind, 
I must, I must, get into my trunk. The 
key is in my satchel in my room. Mamma put 
it there with the clean clothes I wore last night. 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES. 


83 


She said they would last till the trunk came ; 
but that as soon as ever it did I must open it 
and take out a little box was in it for you. 
The very, very moment. I must mind my 
mamma, must n’t I?” 

"Yes, child, I suppose so,” he slowly re- 
turned. 

Mr. Smith was now in his reclining chair, 
with his inflamed foot stretched out in moment- 
ary comfort. He spoke gently, rather sadly, 
in fact, as he added : 

"My child, you may open your trunk. I 
will never counsel you to do anything against 
your mother’s wishes. She seems to be a sensi- 
ble woman. But there has been a mistake 
which I cannot understand. I am Joseph 
Smith. I have lived in this house for many 
years, and it is the street and number which is 
written on the tag you showed me. Do you 
understand me, so far?” 

"Course. Why not?” 

"Very well. I’m sorry to tell you that I 
have no twin brother, no * sister Helen,’ and 
no niece anywhere in this world. I have many 


84 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


cousins whom I distrust, and who don’t like me 
because I happen to be richer than they. That ’s 
why I live here alone, with my colored ' boys.’ 
In short, though I am Joseph Smith, of number 
1000 Bismarck Avenue, I am not this same 
Joseph Smith to whom your mamma sent you. 
To-morrow we will try to find this other Joseph 
Smith, your mislaid uncle. Even to-day I will 
send for somebody who will search for him in 
my stead. Until he is found you will be safe 
with me, and I shall be very happy to have you 
for my guest. Do you still understand? Can 
you follow what I say ? ” 

" Course,” she instantly responded. 

But after this brief reply Josephine dropped 
down upon the rug and gazed so long and so 
silently into the fire that her host was impelled 
to put an end to her reflections by asking : 

"Well, little girl, of what are you think- 
ing?” 

"How nice it would be to have two Uncle 
Joes.” 

"Thank you. That’s quite complimentary 
to me. But I ’m afraid that the other one might 

O 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES . 


85 


prove much dearer than I. Then I should 
be jealous,” he returned, smiling a little. 

Josephine looked up brightly. 

"I know what that means. I had a kitten, 
Spot, and a dog, Keno ; and whenever I petted 
Spot Keno would put his tail between his legs 
and go off under the sofa and look just — 
mis’able. Mamma said it was jealousy made 
him do it. Would you go off under a table if 
the other Uncle J oe got petted ? Oh ! I mean 
— you know. Would you?” 

Though this was not so very lucid, Mr. 
Smith appeared to comprehend her meaning. 
Just then, too, a severe twinge made him con- 
tort his features and utter a groan. 

Josephine was on her feet and at his side 
instantly, crying out : 

"Oh, does it hurt you so dreadful much? 
Can’t I do something for it ? I can bathe feet 
beautiful. Bridget sprained her ankle and 
mamma let me bathe it with arnica. Big 
Bridget said that was what cured it so quick. 
Have you got any arnica ? May I bathe 
it?” 


86 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


" Would you really handle a red, unpleasant, 
swollen old foot and not dislike it?” 

" I guess I should n’t like it much . I did n’t 
like big Bridget’s. I felt queer little feelings 
all up my arm when I touched it. She said it 
hurt me worse than it did her. But I ’d do it. 
I’d love to do it even if I didn’t like it,” she 
answered bravely. 

" Peter, fetch the arnica. Then get a basin 
of hot water,” he ordered. 

The pain was returning with redoubled force, 
and Mr. Smith shut his lips grimly. He 
looked at Josephine’s plump little hands, and 
felt that their touch might be very soothing ; 
as, indeed, it proved. For when the servant 
brought the things desired, the little girl sat 
down upon the hassock beside the great chair 
and ministered to him, as she had done to big 
Bridget. The applications were always help- 
ful, but the tender strokes of her small fingers 
were infinitely more grateful than the similar 
ministrations of the faithful, yet hard-handed, 
Peter. 

"Now I ’ll put it to bed, as if it were Ru- 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES . 


87 


danthy. Poor Rudanthy ! How bad she must 
feel without any face. That ’s worse than hav- 
ing a sore foot, isn’t it?” as she heaped the 
coverings over the gouty toes. 

" Far worse. Only waxen faces are not sub- 
ject to pain.” 

"I s’pose not. Now, Uncle Joe, would you 
like me to sing to you ? ” 

" Can you sing ? ” 

" ’Course. Mamma sings beautifully. She 
is the leader in our choir. My papa says 
she makes him think of angels when she 
sings. I don’t sing like her. Course not. 
But I can do some things, if you like me 
to.” 

" What about the trunk, Josephine? Though 
I really think you would better leave it packed 
pretty nearly as it is, since ” — 

"Uncle Joe, I’ve been thinking about that 
other uncle we ’ve lost. If he is n’t nice, and 
mamma will let me, I ’ll stay with you.” 

He did not dampen her spirits by suggesting 
that she would better wait for him to ask her 
to stay, and merely answered : 


88 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


"Well, time will show what ’s best. Shall 
Peter unlock that trunk ? ” 

Mr. Smith did not wish to break into any- 
body’s confidence ; yet, since she had spoken 
of a box destined for the mislaid " Uncle Joe,” 
he felt that he would be justified in examining, 
at least, the outside of it. 

Josephine went away with the old colored 
man, but did not tarry long. The tin box was 
very near the top of the trunk, and she was in 
haste to give it to her patient, to whom she 
explained : 

" I know what ’s in it. Nothing but some 
California flowers. Mamma said that you 
would like them, even if they faded a little. 
But she hoped they would n’t fade. The box 
is tight, like the big one she and papa take 
when they go botanizing. Mamma is making 
a collection of all the flowers she can and put- 
ting them in a big, big book. She knows their 
names and all about them. Mamma knows — 
everything.” 

" I begin to think so, too, little girl. I never 
before heard of so much virtue and wisdom 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES. 


89 


shut up in one woman. Yes, I see. The box 
is addressed exactly like the tag. Still, I do 
not feel I have a right to open it, for it is 
sealed, you see.” 

" That ’s only paper. It is to keep out the 
air. The air is what spoils things like violets. 
Please do open it, or let me. Mamma would 
be so dreadfully disappointed if you did n’t. 
Why, think! We were in that terrible hurry, 
yet she took time to fix it. She had n’t seen 
you in so many years, she said, and so she 
must send it. Please.” 

" But I am not the ' you ’ she meant, you 
know, Josephine.” 

"Well, you’re somebody, aren’t you? 
You Te my Uncle Joe, anyway, whether you ’re 
the regular one or not. Shall I ? ” and she 
held the box edgewise, ready to tear the strip 
of paper which fastened its edges. 

"Y-es, I suppose so. It may lead to the 
explanation of this riddle,” he assented. 

As the little girl had said, there was nothing 
whatever in the tin box except a quantity of 
violets, with some of the wild blossoms that 


90 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


brighten the mesas in spring-time, and one tiny 
scrap of paper, on which was written, in evi- 
dent haste 

" Dear Brother Joe : Let these violets tell 
you all that I would say ; and, as you are good 
to our little one, may God be good to you. 

" Helen.” 

"Well, there’s no great injury done any- 
body by that deed, I think. We ’ll put the 
note back in the box and the flowers in 
water. When the mislaid Joseph arrives we ’ll 
restore him his property in the best shape we 
can,” said Mr. Smith. 

Peter listened, surprised. His master was 
almost mirthful, and that, too, even during an 
attack of his dreaded malady. If this were 
the effect of Josephine’s presence, he hoped 
that she would remain ; though he was shrewd 
enough to comprehend, from Mr. Smith’s 
words, that this was doubtful. 

" The worst I hopes about it is that that 
other out-of-the-way Joe Smith turns out a 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES. 


91 


wuthless creetur’ that Massa Joe won’t be trustin’ 
little missy with. I ain’t a-wishin’ nobody no 
harm, I ain’t, but I ’se powerful willin’ the mis- 
laid uncle stays lost forever. Yes, suh,” he 
assured his fellow-servants. 

The violets were in a cut-glass bowl which 
Peter received no reprimand for bringing, 
though it was the choicest piece in his master’s 
possession, but, as the old man reasoned : "The 
fittenest one for posies what had travelled in a 
little gell’s trunk, all the way from Californy.” 
The gouty foot had ceased to torment its 
owner; the street without was utterly quiet; 
the fire glowed in the grate, and its glow was 
reflected in a lonely old man’s heart as on the 
happy face of a little girl who nestled beside 
him. He remembered her statement that she 
could sing, but he had been musical in his own 
day and shrank from discord. Could a child 
so young make real melody ? He doubted it, 
yet it was now his intention to make her as 
happy as it lay in his power to do, for the brief 
while that he might keep her ; and he recalled 
her mother’s written words : 


92 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


" As you are good to our little one, may God 
be good to you.” 

So he forced himself to say : 

"If you want to sing now, Josephine, I will 
listen.” 

It was n’t a very gracious request, but the 
other did not notice that. The sight of the 
home flowers had brought back a crowd of 
happy memories, and without delay she began : 

" Maxwelton braes are bonny, 

Where early fa’s the dew,” 

and had not proceeded thus far before the old 
Virginian had raised himself upright in his chair 
and was listening with all his keenly-critical 
ears to the sweetest music he had ever heard. 

Josephine sang for love of singing. She 
could no more help it than a bird could, for 
song came to her as naturally as to it. Her 
voice was birdlike, too, in its clearness and 
compass, and true in every note. 

"Do you like that song, Uncle Joe?” she 
asked. 

"Like it? It’s wonderful. Child, who 
trained you ? ” 


MEMORIES AND MELODIES. 


93 


"I — -why, I’ve just sung with mamma; 
though papa says that when I am older, if he 
is able, I shall have other teachers. I don’t 
think anybody can be better than mamma, 
though,” she answered. 

" Something else, little girl,” came the 
prompt request. 

It was as pure enjoyment to her as to him. 
She sang whatever came to her mind, and 
many old ballads suggested by himself. With 
each one he grew more enthusiastic, and finally 
called Peter to bring him his flute. 

By this time that bewildered creature was 
prepared for anything. When he and Massa 
Joe had been young, music and the flute had been 
their mutual delight. But it was years and years 
since that ancient instrument had been breathed 
upon, though it always lay, wrapped in its 
swaddling clothes, convenient to its owner’s 
desk. Alas, when it was brought, it uttered 
but the ghosts of former melodies, yet nobody 
in that small company was the sadder for that. 
The unusual sounds stole through the house, 
bewitched Lafayette from his cleaning and 


94 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


Apollo from his range. Open-eyed, they 
stood without the library door and wasted their 
time, with none to reprove ; because, for once, 
the sharp eyes of the major-domo, Peter, were 
bent upon a more delectable sight. 

Into the midst of this happy scene came the 
discordant ring of the electric bell, and instantly 
all other sounds ceased. 

" Who in the world would trespass upon us, 
on such a day as this ! ” cried Mr. Smith, at 
last arousing from the unusual mood into which 
he had been betrayed by Josephine’s sweet 
voice. 

"Maybe it’s company, Uncle Joe.” 

"No company comes here without invitation, 
child.” 

" I came, did n’t I ? But we did n’t know 
that, then.” 

" Business, I suppose. Always business ; 
and to-day I ’in unfitted for all business.” 

Business, indeed. For there was ushered 
into the room, by the frowning Peter, the man 
whom of all others his master now least wished 
to see. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR. 

The unwelcome visitor was a Mr. Wakeman, 
confidential clerk and business manager, under 
Mr. Smith, of that gentleman’s many vast 
enterprises. He was an alert young man, 
rather jaunty of dress and manner, and almost 
too eager to please his employer. 

" Good morning, Mr. Smith.” 

" Morning. Terrible prompt, are n’t you ! ” 

" I ’m always prompt, sir, if you remember.” 

The stranger had brought an air of haste and 
unrest into the quiet library, and its owner’s 
comfort was at an end. He moved suddenly 
and his foot began to ache afresh. Even 
Josephine sat up erect and smoothed the folds 
of her red frock, while she gazed upon Mr. 
Wakeman’s face with the critical keenness of 
childhood. On his part, he bestowed upon 
95 


96 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


her a smile intended to be sweet, yet that suc- 
ceeded in being merely patronizing. 

" Good morning, sissy. Did n’t know you 
had any grandchildren, Mr. Smith,” he re- 
marked. 

" Have n’t. Of course,” was the retort. 

" Beg pardon. I ’d forgotten, for the mo- 
ment, that you were a bachelor. I got your 
telephone message,” said the clerk. 

" Naturally.” 

" Thought I ’d best see you personally before 
conducting the inquiries,” went on the young 
man. 

"Unnecessary. Repeat the message you 
received.” 

Mr. Wakeman fidgetted. He realized that 
he had been over-zealous, but proved his relia- 
bility by saying : " ' Find out if there ’s another 
Joseph Smith in town whose residence number 
resembles mine.’ ” 

"Hmm. Exactly. Have you done so?” 
demanded the employer. 

" Not yet. As I was explaining ” — 

" Explanations are rarely useful. Implicit 


THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR . 97 


obedience is what I require. When you have 
followed my instructions bring me the results. 
I — lam in no especial haste. You needn’t 
come again to-day. To-morrow morning 
will answer. Peter, show the gentleman 
out.” 

But for once Peter was not on hand when 
wanted. Commonly, during an attack of gout, 
he kept as close to his master as that^exacting 
person’s " own shadow.” The old man now 
looked around in surprise, for not only had 
Peter, but Josephine, disappeared. There 
were also voices in the hall, and one of these 
was unfamiliar. 

" Peter ! Peter ! ” he called, and loudly. 

"Yes, Massa Joe. Here am I,” answered 
the butler, reappearing. 

"Who’s out yonder?” 

"A — er — ahem ! — the little boy from next 
door, suh.” 

" That rough fellow ? What ’s he want ? ” 

" He, I reckon, he ’s just come to call on our 
Miss Josephine, suh.” 

Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair, over- 


98 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


come by astonishment, and Mr. Wakeman 
quietly slipped away. 

" Send her back in here,” ordered the master 
of the house. 

The little girl came, attended by a red- 
headed lad, somewhat taller than herself, with 
whom she had already established a delightful 
intimacy; for she held fast to his hand and 
beamed upon him with the tenderest of smiles 
as she cried : 

" Oh, Uncle Joe ! Here ’s Michael ! ” 

" Huh ! Well, Michael, what ’s wanted? ” 

"Josephine, Mr. Smith,” returned the lad. 

"Michael, Josephine! How long have you 
two been acquainted ? ” 

" About five minutes, I guess,” answered 
the manly little chap, pulling a battered silver 
watch from his jacket pocket. The watch was 
minus a crystal and he calmly adjusted the 
hands with one red little finger as he announced 
the hour. " It was just eleven o’clock when I 
rang the bell, and it’s six minutes past now, 
Mr. Smith.” Then he shook up his timepiece, 
generously held it toward Josephine and in- 


THE BOY FROM NEXT BOOR . 99 

formed her : " It goes best when it ’s hung up 
sidewise. I’ve had it ever so long. ’Most 
six months, I reckon.” 

"And I’ve had my watch sixteen years,” 
remarked Mr. Smith, displaying his own costly 
chronometer, with its double dials and elegant 
case. "But I should never think of using 
it as you do yours. Well, what’s wanted 
with Josephine?” he asked, with an abrupt 
change. 

" I ’d like to take her sledding,” explained 
the visitor. 

" Well, you can’t. She does n’t belong to 
me, and I never lend borrowed articles.” 

The countenances of both children fell. 

" What put it into your head to come here, 
anyway?” demanded Mr. Smith. 

" She did,” answered Michael. 

" Josephine ? How could she ? ” 

" She saw me when I started out, before the 
sidewalks were shovelled, and hollered after me. 
I couldn’t stop then, ’cause I was going to 
meet another fellow. When I went in to get 
a cracker I told my grandmother that there 


IL.ofC. 


100 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


was a little girl in here and she wouldn’t 
believe it. She said ” — 

Michael paused with so much confusion that 
his questioner was determined to hear just 
what the lady had remarked, and ordered : 

"Well, go on. Never stop in the middle of 
a sentence, boy.” 

"Not even if the sentence isn’t — isn’t a 
very polite one ? ” 

"What did she say ? ” repeated Mr. Smith. 

" She said you were too selfish and fussy 
to allow a child within your doors,” said the 
boy, reluctantly. 

"You see she was mistaken, don’t you?” 

"Yes, Mr. Smith. I explained it to her. I 
said she must be a visitor, and grandma 
thought in that case she ’d be very lonely. 
She sent me in to ask permission to take her 
a ride around the park on my sled. We 
don’t often have such nice sledding in Balti- 
more, you know, Mr. Smith.” 

" And, Uncle Joe, I was never on a sled in 
all my whole life ! ” entreated Josephine, fold- 
ing her hands imploringly. 


THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR . 101 


"No, sir, that ’s what sne says. She ‘s a Cali- 
fornian, from away the other side the map. 
Where the oranges come from. Say, Jose- 
phine, did you bring any oranges with you?” 
inquired Michael ; 

"Not one,” said the little girl, regretfully. 
" I guess there was n’t time. Mamma and big 
Bridget had so much packing to do, and Doctor 
Mack prob’ly did n’t think. I wish I had. I 
do wish I had.” 

" There are plenty of oranges in this city, 
child. I presume Peter has some now in his 
pantry. You may ask him, if you like,” said 
Mr. Smith. 

Peter did n’t wait for the asking, but disap- 
peared for a few moments, then to return with 
a dish of them and place them on the table. 
The eyes of both children sparkled, for it was 
the finest of fruit, yet they waited until the 
butler had brought them plates and napkins 
before beginning their feast. This little action 
pleased the fastidious old gentleman, and made 
him realize that small people are less often ill- 
bred than he had hitherto imagined them to be. 


102 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


He had based his opinion upon the behavior 
of some other little folks whom it had been his 
misfortune to meet upon cars or steamboats, 
who seemed to be always munching, and utter- 
ly careless where their crumbs or nutshells 
fell. This pair was different. 

Indeed, had the host known it, Michael had 
been reared as daintily as Josephine had been. 
" Company manners ” were every-day manners 
with him, and it was one of Mr. Smith’s beliefs 
that "breeding shows more plainly at table 
than anywhere else.” He watched the boy 
with keenness, and it was due to his present 
conduct, of which the lad himself was uncon- 
scious, that final consent was given to Jose- 
phine’s outing. 

Selecting an orange the boy asked : 

" Shall I fix it for you ? ” 

"If you please,” answered the little girl. 

Michael cut the fruit in halves, placed it on a 
plate, laid a spoon beside it, and offered it to 
Josephine, who received it with a quiet 
"Thank you,” and began at once to take the 
juice in her spoon. When each had finished 


THE BOY FROM NEXT BOOR . 103 


an orange they were pressed to have a second, 
and the boy frankly accepted, though the girl 
found more interest in this young companion 
than in eating. 

" It makes a fellow terribly hungry to be out 
in the snow all morning, Mr. Smith. Seems 
as if I was always hungry, anyway. Grandma 
says I am, but I reckon she does n’t mind. 
Oh ! I forgot. Why, she sent you a note. 
I never do remember things, somehow.” 

"Neither do I,” said Josephine, with ready 
sympathy. 

"You ought to, then. Girls ought to be a 
great deal better than boys,” answered Michael. 

"Why?” 

"Oh, because. ’Cause they’re girls, you 
know.” 

Uncle Joe looked up from reading the brief, 
courteous note and felt that that, added to the 
boy’s own manner, made it safe for him to 
entrust his guest to Michael’s care for a short 
time. 

" Very well, Josephine. Mrs. Merriman, 
my neighbor, whom I know but slightly, yet is 


104 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


kind to you, requests that I allow you to play 
with her grandson for an hour. You may do 
so. But put on your cloak and hat and over- 
shoes, if you have them.” 

"I haven’t, Uncle Joe. But I don’t need 
them. My shoes are as thick as thick. See? 
Oh, I’m so glad. I never rode on a red sled 
in all my life, and now I ’m going to. Once 
my papa rode on sleds. He and you — I mean 
that other uncle, away up in New York some- 
where. He ’s seen snow as high as my head, 
my papa has. I never. I never saw only the 
teeniest-teeniest bit before. It’s lovely, just 
lovely. If it wasn’t quite so cold. To ride 
on a sled, a sled, like papa ! ” 

Josephine was anything but quiet now. She 
danced around and around the room, pausing 
once and again to hug her uncle, who sub- 
mitted to the outbursts of affection with 
wonderful patience, " considerin’,” as Peter 
reflected. 

" What did you ride on, the other side the 
map?” asked Michael, laying his hand on her 
arm to stop her movements. 


THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR. 105 


" Why — nothing, ’xcept burros.” 

" Huh ! Them ! Huh ! I ride a regular 
horse in the summer-time, I do. Go get 
ready, if you Te going. I can’t stand here all 
day. The fellows are outside now, whistling. 
Don’t you hear them ? ” 

" But I said she might go with you, because 
you are — well, your grandmother’s grandson. 
I did n’t say she might hobnob with Tom, Dick 
and Harry.” 

Michael fidgetted. The whistling of his 
comrades had already put another aspect on 
the matter. So long as there were no boys in 
sight to play with, he felt that it would be some 
fun to play with even a girl ; especially one 
who was so frank and ready as she whom he 
had seen in Mr. Smith’s doorway. But now 
the boys were back. They ’d likely laugh and 
call him "sissy ” if he bothered with Josephine, 
and what fellow likes to be " sissied,” I ’d wish 
to know ! 

Josephine felt the change in his manner, and 
realized that there was need for haste, yet, 
fortunately, nothing deeper than that. It 


106 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


never occurred to her that she could be in any- 
body’s way, and she returned to the library 
very promptly, her red hat thrust coquettishly 
on one side of her head, and her coat flying apart 
as she ran. She was so pretty and so eager 
that the red-headed boy began to feel ashamed 
of himself, and remembered what his grand- 
mother often told him : that it was the mark of 
a gentleman to be courteous to women. He 
was a gentleman, of course. All his fore- 
fathers had been, down in their ancient home 
in Virginia, which seemed to be considered a 
little finer portion of the United States than 
could be found elsewhere. Let the boys jeer, 
if they wanted to. He was in for it and 
could n’t back out. So he walked up to 
Josephine who was giving Uncle Joe a parting 
kiss, and remarked : 

" I ’ll button your coat. But put your hat 
on straight. It won’t stay a minute that way, 
and when I ’in drawing you, I can’t stop all the 
time to be picking it up. Where’s your 
gloves? Forgot ’em? Never mind. Here’s 
my mittens. Ready? Come on, then. Good 


THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR . 107 


morning, Mr. Smith. I’ll take good care of 
her and fetch her back all right.” 

He seized Josephine’s hand, lifted his cap, 
dropped it over his red hair, and darted from 
the house. 

A group of lads, his mates, had congregated 
before the house, recognizing his sled upon the 
steps, and wondering what could have sent him 
into that forbidding mansion. They were 
ready with questions and demands the instant 
he should appear, but paused, open-mouthed, 
when he did actually step out on the marble, 
leading Josephine. He was not " a Virginian 
and a gentleman ” for nothing. Instinct guided 
his first words : 

"Hello, boys! This is Josephine Smith, 
from San Diego, California. She ’s never seen 
snow before, worth mentioning, and I ’m going 
to give her a sleighride. Her first one. 
S’pose we make it a four-in-hand, and some- 
thing worth while ? What say ? ” 

" Will she be afraid? ” asked one of them. 

"Are you a ’fraid-cat, Josephine?” demand- 
ed Michael, sternly, in a don’t-you-dare-to-say- 


108 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


you-are kind of voice, and the little Californian 
rose to the occasion gallantly. 

"No, I am not. I ’in not afraid of anything 
or anybody — here.” 

" Come on, then.” 

Kopes were unhitched from another sled and 
tied to lengthen that on Michael’s, while he 
and another carefully placed the little passenger 
upon the "Firefly,” bade her "Hold on tight ! ” 
and shouted : " Off we are ! Let her go, boys, 
let her go ! ” 

Then began not one hour, but two, of the 
wildest sport the old square had ever witnessed. 
The walks traversing it had already been 
cleared of the snow, but for once there was no 
restricting " Keep off the grass ” visible. 

The park was like a great, snowy meadow, 
across which the four lads darted and pranced, 
at the risk of many upsets, their own and 
Josephine’s, who accepted the plunges into the 
banks of snow heaped beside the paths with 
the same delight she brought to the smoother 
passages, where the sled fairly flew behind its 
hilarious " four-in-hands,” 


THE BOY FROM NEXT DOOR . 109 


Pedestrians crossing the square were gayly 
informed that this was " a girl who ’d never seen 
snow before, and we ’re giving her enough of it 
to remember ! ” Michael was leader, as always, 
and he led them a merry round, shouting his 
orders till he was hoarse, losing his cap and 
forgetting to pick it up, his red head always to 
the fore, and his own enjoyment intense. 

As for Josephine — words fail to express 
what those two hours were to her. The 
excitement of her new friends was mild com- 
pared to her own. The snow sparkling in the 
sunlight, the keen frosty air, the utter en- 
chanting newness of the scene, convinced her 
that she had entered fairyland. Her hat 
slipped back and hung behind her head, her 
curls streamed on the wind, her eyes gleamed, 
her cheeks grew rosy, and her breath came 
faster and faster, till at last it seemed that 
she could only gasp. 

Just then appeared old Peter, holding up a 
warning hand, since a warning voice would 
not be heard. The four human ponies came to 
a reluctant pause, stamping their feet and 


110 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


jerking their heads after the approved manner 
of high-bred horses, impatient of the bit. 

"For the land sakes, honey ! You done get 
your death ! You ’se been out here a right 
smart longer ’n Massa Joe told you might. 
You come right home with me, little missy, 
now, if you please,” said the butler. 

"We’ll draw her there, Peter. Why, I 
didn’t know we’d been so long,” apologized 
Michael. 

" Thought you was a young gentleman what 
carried a watch ! ” 

" So I am, old Peter,” then producing that 
valuable timepiece he turned it on its side, 
studied its face, and informed his mates : 
" Half-past one, fellows, and my grandmother 
has lunch at one ! Whew ! Home ’s the 
word ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


AFTER THE FROLIC. 

Reaction followed excitement. Josephine 
had never been so tired, no, not even during 
her long railway journey. She had laughed 
and shouted till her throat ached; her eyes 
were still dazzled by the gleam of sunlight 
upon snow ; and her clothing was wet through. 
She stepped from the "Firefly” and climbed 
the cold marble stoop, holding on to Peter’s 
hand as if without its aid she could not have 
mounted it at all. She allowed him to take off 
her hat and cloak, without protesting that she 
liked to do things for herself, and sat down by 
the register with a shiver of content. 

"Tired, little missy?” 

"Terrible tired, Peter, thank you.” 

"Massa Joe’s takin’ his luncheon, Miss 
Josephine.” 


ill 


112 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" Is lie ? ” she asked indifferently. 

"Reckon you better come get yours. Massa 
Joe don’t wait for nobody, he don’t. Less’n 
ever when he ’s got the gout on. Better 
hurry, maybe, honey,” urged the butler. 

Josephine rose, observed that she must go 
wash her hands and fix her hair before she 
could go to table, and wearily ascended the 
stairs to her own grand room. Once there the 
bed looked so inviting, despite its great size, 
that she climbed upon it and dropped her hot 
face on the cool pillow. She forgot to remove 
her wet shoes, nor thought how her dampened 
clothing might stain the delicate lace spread. 
She meant to stay there for a moment only, 
"Just till my eyes get right,” but she fell 
asleep almost instantly. 

She did not notice that the window was open, 
nor that the heat had been turned off, the better 
to warm the library below. She noticed noth- 
ing, in fact, till some time later when old Peter 
shook her sharply, exclaiming still more indig- 
nantly : 

"For land, honey, don’t you know no 


AFTER THE FROLIC. 


113 


better ’n go sleepin’ with your window open 
right here in March? ’T is n’t your fault, 
missy, if you don’t done ketch the pneumony. 
Massa Joe says for you to come downstairs. 
Little gells what live to his house must learn 
not to keep table waitin’, less’n they can’t 
stay. Better get up, Miss Josephine.” 

She obeyed him, but shivered afresh as she 
did so. The next moment she was so warm 
she ran to the window and thrust her head out 
of it. Peter drew her back and closed the 
sash with a bang. Then he led her to the 
washstand and made a futile attempt to brush 
her tangled curls. 

"Never mind, good Peter. I can do it. 
I’m sorry I went to sleep. Has Uncle Joe 
wanted me ? ” she interrupted. 

"Beckon he has, honey. He done suffer 
terrible. He like to hear you sing them songs 
again, likely.” 

" Well, I will, if I ’m not too tired,” she 
answered. 

The butler looked at her anxiously. Was 
she going to be sick? If she were, whatever 


114 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


could he do with her ? A sick man — that was 
one thing ; but a sick little girl, that was quite 
another matter. She would have to go, he 
feared, and to lose her now would seem very 
hard. 

After all, she did not appear ill. She 
laughed and apologized so sweetly to her 
would-be-angry host that he forgot his indig- 
nation and forgave her on the spot. Only 
warned her gravely that he was a man who 
meant exactly what he said, and intended any- 
body belonging to him should do the same. 
One hour was never two ; and, in case they 
never came across that missing uncle of hers, 
he supposed she would have to stay where she 
was until such time as her own parents could 
claim her ; ending his lecture with the question : 

" Would she remember? ” 

She’d promise to try and remember; and 
would he like to hear all about what a lovely, 
lovely time she had had? Did he know what 
snow felt like? Had he ever ridden and ridden 
till he couldn’t see, and been dumped into 
high banks and buried underneath the soft, cold 


AFTER THE FROLIC . 


115 


stuff, till he was nearly smothered, and got his 
stockings all wet, and shouted till he could n’t 
shout another shout? Had he? she cried. 

" I suppose I have. Many, many years ago. 
But wet stockings? Have you got such on 
your little feet? ” he anxiously asked. 

Then, though he shrank from contact with 
anything damp or cold, fearing fresh pangs to 
himself, he drew off her shoe and felt the moist 
but now hot, little foot within. 

" Child, you ’re crazy. Never go round like 
that. Run up to your bathroom and take a 
hot bath. Then put on everything clean and 
dry. Don’t you know better than to behave 
as you have done ? Did n’t your mother have 
sense ” — 

There he paused, arrested by the piteous 
look which came over his guest’s bonny face. 

" Never mind. Don’t cry. I could n’t stand 
that. It ’s bad enough to have the gout, and a 
little girl in the house who does n’t — won’t — 
has n’t changed her stocking — Oh ! Ouch ! 
Clear out, can’t you ? My foot, my foot ! ” 
he shouted. 


116 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Josephine might have echoed, "My throat! 
my throat ! ” but she disdained any such out- 
cry. Her lip curled in a fine scorn, and at 
sight of the grimace he made she laughed out- 
right. Laughed foolishly, convulsively, began 
to cry, and with a little wail of " Mamma ! 
Mamma ! ” ran out of the room. 

Old Peter followed, saw that her room was 
made warm, prepared her bath, helped her to 
lay out clean, dry clothing, and left her, with 
the consoling remark : 

" Don’t you never mind Massa Joe when he’s 
gouty. Men-folks ain’t done got the gumption 
little gells has to keep their mouth shut and not 
groan. Groanin’ lets a powerful lot of bad 
temper outen gouty people, missy, and don’t 
you mind, honey. Just you call on me for 
what you’se needin’ and everything will all 
come right. Now fix yourself up pretty and 
come laughin’ down the stairs, like you done 
last night, and see what ’ll happen.” 

Josephine was comforted. The hot bath did 
make her feel all right, and the pretty frock 
she had selected reminded her quite happily of 


AFTER THE FROLIC. 


117 


mamma and the days when she had sat sewing 
upon it. The very tucks in its skirt seemed 
to bring that dear presence nearer, and she re- 
flected that they were absent from each other 
only till such time as poor papa should get 
quite well. She appeared below, saying : 

"Now I’m good, Uncle Joe. Forgive me 
for being bad. I ’ll sing again if you want 
me.” 

" Of course I want you. Maybe I was a 
bit stern, too, little lady. I hope this wretched 
pain will leave me by to-morrow, then I ’ll be 
able to think of something else besides that 
hateful foot.” 

" Poor foot ! ” she exclaimed. 

"Now sing, if you will.” 

Josephine tried, but it was altogether 
another sort of voice which essayed " Old Lang 
Syne ” from that which had warbled it so 
sweetly earlier in the day; so that she was 
promptly bidden to give over the attempt, Mr. 
Smith adding : 

" You ’re as hoarse as a raven. A few more 
such rough plays with a parcel of boys and 


118 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


your voice would be ruined. Then your 
mother would never forgive me. I know 
enough about music to realize what your sing- 
ing is to her. Here. Take a book and read. 
By-and-by it will be dinner time. Maybe 
the hot soup will soothe your throat.” 

He directed her to a bookcase and a vellum- 
bound copy of " The Pilgrim’s Progress ; ” ob- 
serving with fresh pleasure that it was her 
habit, not an accident of the previous evening, 
that she handled all books daintily and with 
respect for them. Then he forgot her in his 
own Review, and his foot grew easier as the 
afternoon wore on. 

Josephine sat patiently poring over the fa- 
miliar story, which she could easily read in her 
own copy at home, but that seemed different in 
this grand volume ; and after a time the words 
began to mix themselves up in a curious sort of 
jumble. She closed her eyes the better to 
clear her vision, didn’t think to open them 
again, and her head sank down upon the 
pictured page. 

"Huh !” said Mr. Smith, at last laying aside 


AFTER THE FROLIC. 


119 


his own magazine, and regarding the sleeper 
across the table with some amusement. " Old 
Bunyan ’s a trifle heavy for that pretty head. 
I must hunt up some lighter stuff. Grimm or 
Andersen, if I’ve such books in the library. 
If not, I ’ll send out after them. How lovely 
and innocent she looks, and how red her cheeks 
are. Her whole face is red, even, and — 
Peter ! ” 

" Yes, Massa Joe. Yes, suh,” answered the 
butler. 

" Does n’t that child seem a bit feverish ? 
Do you know anything about children, Peter? ” 
asked "Uncle Joe.” 

" Mighty little, I ’se afraid, suh.” 

"Well, sleep can’t hurt anybody. Carry 
her upstairs and lay her on her bed. Cover 
her warm, and probably she ’ll be all right 
afterward. She mustn’t get sick. She must 
not dare to get sick on my hands, Peter ! ” 

"No, Massa Joe. No, suh. She dastn’t,” 
said the negro, quickly. 

Peter lifted the little girl as tenderly as a 
woman, and carried her off to rest. She did 


120 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


not rouse at all, but her head dropped heavily 
on the pillow as if her neck were too slender 
to support it, and her breath came with a 
strange whistling sound. 

The old negro laid his hand upon her tem- 
ples and found them hot. Though he knew 
little about children, he did know that cold 
water was good in such a case, so dipped a 
towel and folded it across her head. The appli- 
cation seemed to soothe her, for her features 
became more natural, and, after a time, as she 
appeared to be resting well enough, he stole 
cautiously from the room and went about his 
business. Though his interest was now wholly 
with Josephine, he dared not neglect his duties 
below stairs, and knew that, as usual when he 
was ill, Mr. Smith would expect the best of 
dinners that evening. It had been so stormy 
early in the day that he had not attended to his 
marketing, and must now make haste to repair 
the delay. Apollo was apt to lay the blame 
on the butler, if things failed to turn out as 
desired, and there was need for haste if the 
roast beef were to be secured of the cut preferred. 


AFTER THE FROLIC . 


121 


" I ’ll just fetch a posy for the little lady, I 
will. If market’s over they’s plenty them 
flower-stores, and maybe it ’ll make her forget 
all her lonesomeness. Poor little missy ! 
What the Lord done sent to bless this great, 
empty house. Nothing mustn’t happen to 
hurt her, nothing must n’t. No, suh,” reflect- 
ed the good old man. 

W r hen Peter returned from his marketing 
Josephine was still asleep. He did not dis- 
turb her, though he listened anxiously to her 
hoarse breathing and carefully replaced the 
damp towel which her restlessness had tossed 
aside. He also laid the bunch of carnations 
on the coverlet beside her and cautiously 
retreated to the hall, where he kept as close 
a watch upon her as he could find time to 
give. 

" Dinner is served, Massa Joe,” he an- 
nounced, when its hour arrived. 

" Is Miss Josephine ready?” asked the host. 

"She done sleepin’ mighty comf ’table, suh,” 
protested Peter. 

" Seems to me I ’ve read somewhere that 


122 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


children should sleep half the time. Is that 
so, Peter?” 

" Certainly, suh, I reckon likely ’t is,” replied 
the other, willing to agree. 

"Then don’t wake her. You — you may 
have a little dinner put back for her,” said 
"Uncle Joe,” with some hesitation. 

The butler stared at this unheard-of conde- 
scension, but answered after his common form- 
ula. Yet the plate of food he so carefully 
prepared and set in the hot- water dish to keep 
warm for her was destined never to be eaten. 


CHAPTER IX. 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES. 

Mrs. Merriman’s bell rang violently once, 
twice, and the lady laid aside her book, 
exclaiming : 

" Who can that be, so late as this ? Half- 
past nine, and almost bed-time. Run, Michael. 
Though I thought you ’d gone upstairs before 
now. It takes the maid so long to answer. 
There it is again. Hurry. Dear, dear! I 
hope it is n’t a telegram.’’ 

"I’m going, Mary,” called the lad to the 
maid, as he rushed to the door. 

Peter stood outside, bareheaded and looking 
almost white in his terror. 

"For mercy’s sake, Massa Michael, is there 
a woman in this house ? ” 

" Of course. Lots of them. Grandmother, 
Mary, waitress, Samanda — Why?” 

123 


124 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


"Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she ’ll 
die.” 

"Die, Peter? That little girl? What’s 
the matter? ” cried Michael. 

" Goodness knows, I don’t. She can’t hard- 
ly breathe, she can’t. Massa Joe’s sent for 
his doctor and his doctor he’s out, and we 
don’t have no faith in them others round the 
square, and — Will some of your women please 
just step in and take a look at our poor little 
missy?” . 

Michael darted back into the sitting-room, 
exclaiming : 

" Grandma, that little girl next door is awful 
sick. Peter’s frightened most to death him- 
self. He wants some of our women to go in 
there and help them.” 

" Our women ! Of what use would they be, 
either of them? I’ll go -myself. Ring for 
Mary, please,” said the old lady, rising. 

The maid appeared, and was directed to 
bring : 

" My shawl and scarf, Mary. I ’m going in 
next door to see a sick child. You stay right 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES. 


125 


here in the hall and keep the latch up, so that 
there ’ll be no delay if I send in for you or any- 
thing needed. Yes, Michael, you may go with 
me to help me up and down the steps, though 
you ought to be in bed. Yet come. It must 
be something serious for Mr. Smith to thus far 
forego his reserve.” 

Uncle Joe was waiting at the head of the 
stairs as Mrs. Merriman ascended them, with 
that activity upon which she prided herself, 
and asked : 

" Are you in trouble, neighbor ? What is it ? ” 

"The little girl. I* don’t know whose even. 
Came to me, an express ' parcel,’ and I have n’t 
traced the blunder, found the right — no mat- 
ter. This way,* please. I ’ll explain later.” 

There was no trace of the gout left in the gen- 
tleman’s movements as he preceded his neighbor 
to Josephine’s room, where the child lay gasp- 
ing, feverish, and clutching at her own throat 
in an agony of terror. 

One glance, and Mrs. Merriman’s shawl was 
tossed aside, and she had lifted the little suffer- 
er in her arms, observing : 


126 


the Mislaid uncle. 

W* 

" Not even undressed ! How long has she 
been like this ? ” ^ 

"For several hours, Peter says, but growing 
steadily worse. I ’ve sent for the doctor, but 
he has n’t come. He ” — 

She interrupted him with : 

" Send for another. The nearest possible. 
It’s croup. Short and quick, usually. Mich- 
ael, run in for Mary. Now, Peter, heat some 
blankets. Find me her night-clothes. Warm 
that bed. A foot-tub of hot water. Any oil 
in the house ? Epicac ? Any other household 
remedies ? ” 

" There ’s the medicine for the gout, madam,” 
suggested Mr. Smith. 

" Oh, bother the gout. That ’s nothing. 
This is — serious. There, Mary, lend a hand. 
Michael, run for Doctor Wilson. Hurry. If 
you can’t find him, then the next one. There 
are seven of them around this square, perched 
like vultures, seeking whom they may devour. 
As a rule, I ignore the whole crowd, but I’m 
thinking of this little one’s mother now. 
Hurry, lad,” directed Mrs. Merriman. 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES . 


127 


Mr. Smith stood silent, helpless, and admir- 
ing. This was a gentlewoman of the old 
school, such as he remembered his own mother 
to have been, who was not afraid to use her 
own hands in ministering to the suffering and 
who wasted no time in questions. Every 
movement of her wrinkled but still firm fingers 
meant some solace to the little child, whose 
brown eyes roamed from one to another with 
a silent, pitiful appeal. In a twinkling, it 
seemed, Josephine was undressed, reclothed 
in soft, warm garments, her chest anointed with 
the relaxing oil, and a swallow of hot milk 
forced between her lips. Then Michael was 
dispatched to the nearest drug store and 
brought back a dose of the old-fashioned rem- 
edy Mrs. Merriman had used for her own little 
children. But she had hardly time to admin- 
ister it before one of the physicians summoned 
had appeared, and to him she promptly re- 
signed the direction of affairs. His first order 
was that Mr. Smith should go below to his 
own comfortable library and remain quiet, 
adding : 


128 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


" I ’ll report as soon as your child is better, 
sir.” 

" She is n’t my child, doctor, but do you 
care for her as if she were. Spare no expense. 
She must not, she must not die upon my 
hands. I ’d no right to retain her as long as 
I have, but — but — Don’t let her die, doctor, 
and you ’ll save me from everlasting remorse.” 

" Go below, Mr. Smith. Peter, attend 
your master. There are enough of us here, 
and this little lady will soon be all right. It ’s 
croup only, and — What has she been eating 
lately? ” 

" What has she not ? How can I tell ? But 
one thing I know, she ate no dinner to-night,” 
answered the host. 

"So much the better. Now, Mr. Smith” — 
a wave of the hand in the direction of the 
doorway suggested that the master of the 
house was banished from the sickroom. 

Daylight was breaking when at last the 
doctor led Mrs. Merriman down the stairs and 
to her own home, leaving Mary and Peter on 
watch, and promising a speedy return, with 


neighborly amenities. 


129 


the assurance that all danger was now past. 
At the door of the library the old lady paused 
and looked in. Mr. Smith still sat erect in his 
chair, and seemed as wide awake as she was 
drowsy, and she advised him : 

" Go to bed, neighbor. The little one is all 
right again. We Ve had a tussle for it, but 
she ’s pulled through. Go to bed and get some 
rest. I ’m really sorry for you that this unin- 
vited trouble has come upon you, and will help 
you share it, so far as I may. But, doubtless, 
we ’ll all see why it was allowed, before we ’ve 
done with it.” 

He returned, gallantly enough : 

"For one reason, it may be, madam, to 
render me more just and tolerant to my neigh- 
bors. You have laid me under great ” — 

But she checked him, saying : 

" Beg pardon, under nothing at all. It was 
the little child for whom I came, and if I have 
served you, too, why so much the better. 
Good morning.” 

She went at once, leaving him to reflect : 

" To go to bed at daylight ! When ever did 


130 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


I such a thing? But I will. Though I wonder 
if I am quite right in my mind. The idea of 
one small child upsetting two such households, 
all for the sake of a sled-ride ! Hmm. Hmm. 
Peter ! Here, Peter. I ’m for bed at break- 
fast time ! After an hour or two of rest I ’ll 
set about finding that mislaid Joseph Smith 
and hand over to him this little-too-absorbing 
responsibility. Thank God, boy, that she did 
not die.” 

" Aye, Massa Joe. I ’se been a-thinkin’ of 
him the whole endurin’ night. Powerful 
queer, ain’t it? Just such a little speck of 
while, and now seems if that little missy worth 
more to old Peter than the whole universe. 
Yes, suh, the whole universe ! ” 

" Much you know about the universe, boy. 
There, there ! Take care that foot. If you 
set it aching again — Ouch ! ” 

It was not one but many hours that Mr. 
Smith slept, worn out by his late physical 
suffering and his anxiety of the last night. 
When he woke his first inquiry was for Jose- 
phine. 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES. 


131 


"Laws, Massa Joe, it ’s just wonderful. That 
child seems if nothing ever ailed her. The 
doctor done been here again and told what to 
give her for breakfast. She eat it like she was 
’most starved, the little lamb. Now she ’s 
sleepin’ again, the beautifullest ever was. I 
’xpect ’twas that sleddin’ round the square 
done fetched it on. Next time ” — 

"Hush, boy. Don’t count on any 'next 
time ’ for her here. I must hunt up that other 
Joseph Smith and hand her over to him forth- 
with,” said the master. 

Peter’s heart sank. How could they ever 
endure that great house now with this little 
child gone out of it? Well, there was one 
thing which nobody could prevent — his wishing 
that the "other Joseph ” might never be found ! 

After Mr. Smith had eaten he paid a flying 
visit to the little one’s room, gazed at her now 
peaceful, if pale face, and stole downstairs 
again with softened tread. He limped but 
slightly, and made a critical survey of himself 
before he issued from the great hall into the 
street. 


132 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" If you ’s going down town, Massa Joe, like 
enough you better have a cab. ’Counten your 
foot,” suggested Peter. 

You may ’phone for one, boy. No. Stay. 
I ’ll not baby myself thus far. The air is warm 
as summer, almost, and the streets cleared. 
I ’ll take a car ; but — Shut that door, Peter. 
I don’t need you further. If anything happens 
to Miss Josephine, or any news comes con- 
cerning her, send me word at once. Shut that 
door, can’t you ? ” he finished testily. 

" Certainly, suh ; ” yet good Peter left it a 
crack ajar, the better to watch his master, 
whose actions somehow suggested a different 
order of things from usual. He saw Mr. 
Smith descend his own and ascend Mrs. Mer- 
riman’s stoop, and threw up his hands in dis- 
may, exclaiming : 

" For goodness ! I do hope Massa Joe ain’t 
done gone rake up all that old line-fence 
trouble, just after her bein’ so good to our 
little missy. What if ’t is five inches on our 
ground, and she claimin’ it ’s just so far ’t other 
way, and the lawyers argifying the money 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES. 


133 


outen both their pockets, this ain’t no time for 
to go hatchin’ fresh miseries. And I never, 
not once, all these dozen years seen Massa 
Joe go a callin’ and a visitin’ nobody, not for 
just pure visit. Whenever he has, ’twas 
’cause there was some sort of business tacked 
on to the end of it somehow. Huh ! I never 
done looked for this, I did n’t.” 

Neither had the lady expected the call which 
was made upon her. But she greeted her 
guest with a friendly courtesy that made him 
all the more remorseful for the legal difficulties 
he had placed in her way in the past, and 
quite ready to offer his apologies for the same 
at a fitting opportunity. At present his visit 
was to express his gratitude for her services to 
Josephine, and to ask her advice. 

" My advice, Mr. Smith ? I am the last per- 
son in the world to advise so capable a person 
as yourself. My opinion you ’re most wel- 
come to, if you explain what I should express 
it about,” she returned. 

"The little girl, Josephine and he told all 
he knew and had thought concerning her ; fin- 


134 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


ishing with the words, " I have so little infor- 
mation to go upon.” 

She promptly inquired : 

" Beg pardon, but have you gone upon what 
little you do possess?” 

" Madam?” he asked. 

" I mean, have you really set about finding 
this mislaid uncle as if your heart was in it ? ” 
she explained. 

" I have n’t hurried. I deputized my busi- 
ness man to look the thing up, but — I don’t 
deny that I wish the other rightful Joseph 
Smith might be found to have left the coun- 
try, ” he answered. 

"Even despite the anxiety Josephine has 
caused you?” 

"Yes, madam. I mean to be honest. I 
hate to set detectives on the task, yet I will. 
But meanwhile, until the child’s relatives are 
found, what shall I do with her? Can you 
direct me to a capable woman who will engage 
to look after her welfare for the few days I 
may need her ? ” 

Mrs. Merriman looked at him critically, 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES . 


135 


with a twinkle gleaming in her eye. An au- 
dacious thought had come to her, yet a thought 
so full of possibilities for good — and, maybe, 
ill — that she decided to act upon it, and 
quietly replied : 

"Yes, Mr. Smith, I think I do know just 
the right woman. She has lately returned 
from a winter in California, where she has 
been nursing an invalid back to health. 
She is a trained nurse and was with me last 
year, during my long illness. I received her 
card recently saying that she would be in 
this city about now. Indeed, she must have 
left Southern California at about the same 
time as your little ward, though she was to 
delay a day or so at Chicago. I will send to 
inquire if she is at home, at her boarding-house, 
if you desire.” 

He assented, adding : 

" I should be very grateful. I trust I may 
be able to prove later on that I am not un- 
appreciative of all your goodness.” 

" Don’t mention it. Good morning. I will 
write the note immediately, and until some 


136 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


person is regularly established in your house 
to look after little Josephine, I will step in 
there now and then, myself, to see that all is 
right.” 

They parted most amicably, and the first 
action of Mr. Smith, upon reaching his office, 
was to send for his lawyer and tell him that he 
had abandoned the question of line-fences 
entirely ; that Mrs. Merriman should be noti- 
fied that all claim to the " insignificant strip of 
land midway their respective side-yards was 
hereby and forever relinquished, with no costs 
to herself.” 

Her own proceeding was the writing of a 
note to her friend, the nurse, and so impera- 
tive was the summons it contained that the 
lady answered in person, although not yet suf- 
ficiently rested from the fatigue of a long 
journey and her previous engagement to desire 
another so promptly. 

As for Josephine, after a morning of dream- 
less, health-restoring sleep, she woke to find a 
familiar figure sitting by her bedside, smiling 
affectionately upon her. A brief, puzzled 


NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES . 


187 


glance, a rubbing of the brown eyes to make 
sure they saw aright, and the child sprang out 
of bed , into the woman’s arms crying : 

" Oh, Red Kimono ! You dear, kind, Mrs. 
Red Kimono, where did you come from? ” 


CHAPTER X. 


TOM, DICK, HARRY, AND THE BABY. 

For the next week Mr. Smith was untiring 
in his efforts to find the missing Joseph Smith, 
his namesake. Telegrams sped back and forth 
between Baltimore and San Diego, with the 
result that the only information gained was : on 
the very day, or the next following that, on 
which Mrs. John Smith sailed from San Diego 
for Santiago de Chile, Doctor Alexander Mac- 
Donald, otherwise known as "Doctor Mack,” 
had departed for the Philippines. No person 
at their recent home knew anything further 
concerning these two persons, and owing to 
their long journeys all communication with 
them was for the present impossible. 

The seventy-five Joseph Smiths residing in 
or around Baltimore had all been unearthed, 
so to speak, without finding one who in any 
138 


TOM , DICK , HARRY , 4iVD THE BABY . 139 


particular beyond the name resembled the de- 
sired one. Not one was anybody’s twin, not 
one happened to have had any relative in either 
San Diego or Santiago, and not one welcomed 
the thought of receiving a strange child into 
his household. 

One Joseph Smith had, indeed, been found 
to have lately resided at 1000 Bismarck Street 
and this confusion of street and avenue ex- 
plained to Uncle Joe’s mind the whole curious, 
yet simple blunder. This Bismarck-Street 
Joseph Smith was, doubtless, the right one ; 
but, also, he was the only one of the seventy- 
five who could not now be located ! He had 
disappeared as completely as if the earth had 
swallowed him, and Josephine’s present guar- 
dian rested his efforts ; merely causing an 
advertisement to be inserted in each of the 
daily papers to the effect that the person an- 
swering it might hear of something to his 
advantage by calling at the newspaper office 
and leaving his address for the advertiser, " S.” 

Nobody called. Matters dropped into a 
comfortable routine. Uncle Joe was disturbed 


140 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


at finding the name of the trained nurse was 
also Smith, and to prevent unpleasant Compli- 
cations, requested that he might call her as the 
little girl did, " Mrs. Red Kimono,” or, more 
briefly, " Miss Kimono,” she having set him 
right as to her maidenly condition. 

She readily and smilingly agreed to this, 
and, reporting the matter to Mrs. Merriman, 
laughed so heartily over it, that that lady re- 
monstrated, saying: 

"Dear Miss Desire, it ’s outrageous. Under 
the circumstances I would never permit it. 
The idea! He excludes you from table with 
himself and the little girl, does he not? For 
so Michael tells me.” 

"Yes. Not, I fancy, from arrogance, but 
merely from force of habit. He dislikes 
women, utterly and sincerely. Or he thinks 
he does. But Josephine has won his whole 
heart for childhood, and he likes her to be 
with him as constantly as possible. From 
what the servants tell me, she has wrought a 
complete transformation in the household. 
And she is so lovely, so winning, that event- 


TOM , DICK , HARRY, AND THE BABY . 141 


ually she ’ll bring everything right. I don’t 
mind the table business ; the main thing is 
that I am in his house, tolerated there, and 
determined, if the time is not too short, to 
prove to him that blood is thicker than water, 
and that, just though he thinks himself, he has 
been wholly unjust in his treatment of others. 
Oh, I don’t object to the situation. I get lots 
of quiet fun out of it, and have n’t felt so 
happy in a long time. I ’ve even lost all bit- 
terness against him, poor, solitary, prejudice- 
bound old man,” returned the nurse. 

" Well, may I be there to see when the 
revelation is at last made ! Though I prophesy 
that his behavior in the matter will be as 
straightforward as it was about the line-fence. 
Think ! We squabbled over it like a couple of 
silly children, for years and years. I can’t 
understand now how I could ever have been so 
absurd. Must you go? Well, then, since 
your employer wishes you to take little Jose- 
phine down town to get that Rudanthy a head, 
suppose you both go with me in my carriage ? 
I will call for you at three o’clock.” 


142 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Miss Kimono thanked hep friend and de- 
parted ; and that same afternoon the unhappy 
doll’s ruined countenance was replaced by one 
so beautiful that it almost consoled Josephine 
for the loss of the more familiar face. 

That very day, too, away out in a suburban 
village, where rents were cheap and needs few, 
three little lads sat on a bare floor, surround- 
ing a baby, who rejoiced in the high-sounding 
name of Penelope, but rejoiced in very little 
else. Even now she was crying for her dinner, 
and each of the " triplets,” as they were called 
by the neighbors, was doing his utmost to con- 
sole her. In reality they were not triplets, 
though the eldest were twins, and their names 
were those so objectionable in Uncle Joe’s 
ears, Tom, Dick, and Harry. 

" Here, Penel ! You may play with my pin- 
wheel ! ” cried the latter. 

" No, Harry, she must not. She ’ll swallow 
it. The pin ’ll scratch her insides. She swal- 
lows everything, Penelope does. And you 
mustn’t say just ' Penel.’ Mother doesn’t 
like that. She says it’s a beautiful name and 
must n’t be spoiled.” 


TOM, DICK , HARRY, AND THE BABY. 143 

" Oh, Tom, you ’re always a c’recting a 
fellow. Well, if she can’tfhave my pin- wheel, 
what shall I give her to make her shut up ? ” 

"Maybe I can find something in mother’s 
cupboard, maybe,” answered Harry. 

The tone was doubtful, but the suggestion 
cheering, and with one accord the triplets left 
the baby to its fate and betook themselves to 
the rear room where they ransacked a small 
pantry, only to find their search rewarded by 
nothing more palatable than a stale loaf of 
bread and a few raw potatoes. 

"She can’t eat taters, and she can’t eat this 
bread, ’ithout it ’s softened. And there is n’t 
any milk,” said Dick, despondingly. " I don’t 
see why we don’t have things like w’e used to 
have. I don’t know what made my folks 
move ’way out here to nowhere, anyway. I 
was just going to get a new ’rithmetic to my 
school, and now, I — I hate this.” 

" No, you don’t hate it, Dicky. Not always. 
You ’re hungry, that ’s all,” said the more 
thoughtful Tom. 

"Well, so are you ! ” retorted Dick, resent- 


144 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


ing the statement as if it were an implication 
of guilt. 

" If you can’t get milk, water must do,” 
answered Tom, taking the loaf from his 
brother’s hand and carefully breaking off a 
portion of it, to moisten it under the spigot. 

The others watched him with keen interest, 
and Harry inquired : 

"Do you s’pose I could have just a little 
bit, Tom?” 

"No, I don’t s’pose anything like it. You 
are n’t a baby, are you ? Only babies eat 
when ’t is n’t dinner time, now.” 

" Once I used to eat when ’t was n’t dinner. 
Once I did,” answered the little boy, with 
something like a quiver of the lip. 

" Does our father or our mother eat ’tween 
meals, Harry Smith?” demanded Tom, indig- 
nantly. 

"No. Come on. If we can’t have bread 
let’s play hop-toad.” 

" All right. After I ’ve set Penelope up 
against the wall so’s we shan’t knock her 
over,” answered the brother. 


TOM, DICK , HARRY, AND THE BABY. 145 


The little maid was soon propped securely 
across an angle of the whitewashed wall, with 
a chair before her to keep her from creeping 
forward into danger, and the small triplets 
were soon leaping over one another’s backs, 
around and around the room. Fortunately, 
there was little furniture to obstruct their 
movements and therefore little danger of hurt- 
ing themselves ; and though the exercise 
tended to increase their always-present hun- 
ger, that was nothing new. 

"A fellow can have a good time even if he 
does n’t have a good dinner,” was their father’s 
assertion ; and to them father was an oracle. 

While the fun was at its height there came a 
knock on the little street door. The house was 
but the tiniest of cottages, and its floor raised 
but slightly above the street. Its door hung 
loosely from its upper hinge and dragged so 
heavily in closing that it was commonly left 
ajar. No landlord cared to fix it up for such 
poor tenants as now occupied the property, and 
they had not done it for him. So that when 
his knock was unanswered, because unheard, 


146 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


the visitor calmly entered, followed the noise, 
and presented himself before the gaze of the 
astonished, suddenly quieted lads. 

"Hello, youngsters, hard at it?” demanded 
the stranger, playfully. 

" Hop-toad, leap-frog ; having frolics,” an- 
swered Harry, boldly, while his brothers, the 
twins, clung together and looked anxiously at 
the man. 

"Nice game. Used to play it myself, when 
I was a little shaver. Don’t know but I 
might be persuaded to try it again, if I was 
invited,” said the unknown visitor. 

None of the trio responded to this sugges- 
tion, nor was the game resumed. The three 
children stood utterly silent, regarding the 
gentleman with the intensely critical gaze of 
childhood which pretence finds so disconcert- 
ing. The stranger felt as if six gimlets were 
boring their way through his outward amiabil- 
ity to the vexation beneath ; a vexation that 
he had allowed himself to come so far out of 
his way to find a man who could not possibly 
reside in such a hovel. None the less, since 


TOM, DICK , HARRY , AND THE BABY . 147 


here he was he would ask a question or two 
for the satisfaction of it, and put the first one, 
thus : 

" Say, youngsters, what’s your name?” 

" Tom, Dick, and Harry. That ’s me,” an- 
swered the latter, placing his arms akimbo, the 
better to stare at the questioner, it seemed. 

"The mischief! Saucy, are n’t you ! ” re- 
joined the newcomer. 

" And the baby. That ’s Penelope,” added 
Tom, with his usual precise gravity. 

" Tom, Dick, and Harry, and the baby ; a 
hopeful lot of you. All right. So much for 
first names, though I don’t believe they ’re 
genuine. Give us the last name and be quick 
about it,” ordered this odd man. 

"Our name is Smith. That’s our father’s 
name and our mother’s. Why? Do they owe 
you something? ’Cause if they do, I wish, I 
wish you ’d please go away, quick as a wink, 
and not let them know you ’ve been here. My 
father can’t help it. He — something got 
wrong with the business, and I ’ve heard them 
talk lots of times. They” — explained Tom. 


148 


THE MISLAID UNCLE . 


Just there it occurred to the little fellow 
that he was discussing family affairs too freely 
with a stranger, and instinct made him pause. 

"Well, 'they’ what? Is his name Joseph? 
Joseph Smith? Has he a brother who is a 
twin ? ” asked the stranger. 

Tom considered, there seemed no harm in 
answering these questions. 

"Yes, his name is Joseph. He has a 
brother who is a twin, same as me and Dick.” 

Then there ensued the following dialogue, 
begun by the visitor with the next question : 

" Where does this uncle of yours live ? ” 

"I don’t know.” 

"Don’t know? Haven’t you ever seen 
him ? ” 

"No. Never.” 

" Where ’s your father ? ” 

"Out looking for work. Maybe he’ll get it 
to-day, maybe.” 

The wistfulness of the childish voice told its 
own story, and even Mr. Wakeman’s heart 
was touched by it. He was compelled to say : 

" Likely he will, chappie. Likely enough 


TOM, DICK , HARRY, AND THE BABY . 149 

he will. And your mother? I suppose you 
have a mother? ” 

"Course. The nicest mother there is.” 
"Does she happen to be at home? ” 

Tom’s gaze flew past the questioner toward 
a little woman who had entered unperceived, 
and who was closely followed by a handsome 
man with a mien as bright and undaunted as 
if he were not evidently half-starved and poor 
in the extreme. With the gentlest of move- 
ments he placed himself between the lady and 
the stranger, as if to ward off from her any 
fresh misfortune. 

"Your errand, Mr.” — 

"Wakeman. My name is Wakeman. Since 
you did n’t answer our advertisement I looked 
you up, myself. I represent Joseph Smith, of 
the Stock Exchange.” 

" Ah ! ” The ejaculation spoke volumes. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 

In that little word "All!” were expressed 
hope, relief, eagerness, and gratitude. The 
name was that of a well-known financier ; one 
who had the power of dispensing good or ill to 
hundreds of other men. It could not forebode 
ill to the master of this insignificant home, 
since he was no debtor to it ; therefore it 
must denote some blessing. A situation, the 
chance to earn a living for these precious ones 
whom his failure and his honesty had impover- 
ished. For the first time, at the relief of this 
fancy, tears leaped to the bright, clear eyes of 
this new Joseph Smith, and unconsciously, it 
seemed, he clasped his wife’s thin waist with 
his strong arm. 

" Cheer for us, Kitty, girl. Doubtless this 
other Joseph Smith needs an accountant and 
150 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 151 


has heard of my skill that way. I was an ex- 
pert, sir, before I went into business for myself 
and failed, attempting a commercial line I did 
not understand,” explained the man, yet losing 
his own courage as the explanation went on. 
He had boasted thus of his reputation the better 
to comfort his wife, but he read no encourage- 
ment in the countenance of Mr. Wakeman, 
which grew more forbidding each instant. 

"Do not mistake, Mr. Smith. My errand is 
not of the sort which you appear to expect. 
My employer — I am myself an expert account- 
ant, and the only one necessary to our busi- 
ness — my employer does not know of my 
present visit. Some days ago he entrusted a 
private bit of detective work to me, and I have 
now, I think, brought it to a finish. Why, 
however, may I ask, did you not reply to our 
advertisement ? ” 

"I have seen none. This,” waving his hand 
around the bare^apartment, " is hardly the place 
where the luxury of newspapers may be looked 
for. What was the advertisement, if you 
please ? ” 


152 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


Mr. Wakeman explained. Explained, added, 
itemized, and diffused himself all over the ar- 
gument, so to speak, while the faces of his 
audience grew more and more tense and dis- 
turbed. At length he finished : 

"That is the way it stands, sir, you see. 
Your brother John consigned this child [to my 
employer, through a mistake in the address. 
Simply that. Now an old gentleman and — 
feeble, I may say ” — Oh ! if Uncle Joe could 
have heard him ! " A feeble old man is not 

the one to be burdened with other folks’ rela- 
tions. When I go back to town, now, I ’ll be 
able to report that the missing uncle of this 
waif has been found at last, and that — Shall 
I say when you will call to reclaim her ? ” 
Father and mother looked into each other’s 
eyes, one questioning the other, and reading 
in each but the same answer. Then said 
Joseph Smith, rightful uncle of our Josephine : 

"Spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Wakeman. 
My brother’s child is our child, as dear and 
near. Alas, that I can offer her no better 
shelter ! but it is a safe one and will be more 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 153 


comfortable. I shall soon get a situation ; I 
must soon get one. It is impossible that skill 
shall go forever unrecognized. In any case the 
little Josephine must come home to us. Eh, 
Kitty, girl?” 

She answered him valiantly, seeing through 
his unusual boastfulness, who was commonly 
so modest of his own attainments, and smil- 
ing back upon him with the same undaunted 
courage he brought to their changed life. It 
was taking bread from her own children’s 
mouths to do what now she did, yet her step 
never faltered as she walked across to the 
little cupboard and took from some hidden 
nook, known only to herself, their last quarter 
dollar. This she gave to her husband, saying 
cheerily : 

" If you go at once, Joe, you may be home 
again in time for dinner. I ’d like to be 
prompt with it for I ’ve secured a dress to 
make for a woman in the neighborhood and 
can begin it to-night. Besides, I ’m all impa- 
tience to see this little Josephine. Think of 
it, dear, the child who was named for you. 


154 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


How little we dreamed she was right here in 
our own Baltimore all this time. Go, dear, at 
once.” 

With something like a groan the man caught 
the brave little creature in his arms, and was 
not ashamed to kiss her then and there before 
this staring stranger who had brought them 
this news. Ill or good, which would it prove? 
Then he put on his hat and went directly away. 

Mr. Wakeman followed more slowly. He 
did not feel as much elated over his success as 
an amateur detective as he fancied he should 
feel. He was thinking of many things. Sup- 
pose this fellow, who was so down on his luck, 
this other unknown, insignificant Joseph Smith, 
should happen to take the fancy of the great 
Joseph Smith, of whom the world of business 
stood in such awe, and that magnate should 
happen to employ him on certain little matters 
of his own? Suppose those inquiries were 
directed toward his, Mr. Wakeman’s, own ac- 
counts, what would follow? Who could tell? 
Hmm ! Yes, indeed. To prevent any such 
" happenings ” that might prove unpleasant, it 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 155 


would be as well to make a little detour around 
by the office, even though it was after office 
hours and business all done for that day. In 
any case the new-found Uncle Joe, the real arti- 
cle, was now en route for 1000 Bismarck Ave- 
nue, and it wouldn’t take two to tell the same 
story. Mr. Wakeman hoped the story would 
be told, and that child which had caused him 
so much trouble well out of the way before he 
again met his master. Then would be quite 
time enough to look for a reward, such as was 
due from a multi-millionaire to his trusted and 
effective man of affairs. 

Pondering thus, Mr. Wakeman rode back 
to town in a livery hack, while the impecunious 
uncle of the little Californian rode thither in a 
democratic street car. The faster the car sped 
the more impatient the improvident young man 
became. He wondered if his twin’s little 
daughter could be half as pretty and interest- 
ing as his own small people. He was glad he 
had never once written J ohn or Helen anything 
about his business troubles. They supposed 
him to be doing uncommonly well and living 


156 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


in comfort, if not in luxury. Well, if this 
young Josephine were of the same good stock 
as her father a little poverty and privation in 
her youth wouldn’t hurt her; and where, 
search the wide world over, could any child 
find a sweeter, better foster-mother than his 
own Kitty? 

When he arrived at Bismarck Avenue, things 
were already happening there which were out 
of the ordinary, to say the least. Among the 
day’s mail had come several letters to one Miss 
Desire Parkinson Smith, care of Mr. Joseph 
Smith. These letters had been handed to 
the master along with his own, and had caused 
him surprise amounting almost to consterna- 
tion. 

" Desire Parkinson ! Desire Parkinson ! And 
Smith ! The combination is remarkable, if 
nothing more, Peter,” he exclaimed. 

"Yes, suh, Massa Joe. Yes, suh,” returned 
the also startled negro. 

" Do you see these letters ? ” asked the 
master. 

"Yes, sir,” said the butler. 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 157 

" Notice the superscription. Ever been any 
others with the same ? ” 

"Yes, suh, heaps. Most all of them comes 
to Miss Kimono. Though some is just plain 
Miss Smith.” 

" Hmm ! Hmm ! This is — this is — dis- 
turbing,’’ admitted Mr. Smith. 

Uncle Joe dropped into deep thought and 
sat so long in profound quiet that Josephine, 
playing on the carpet near by, folded her 
hands and watched him anxiously. She had 
grown to love his stern old face, that was 
never stern to her, with all the fervor of her 
affectionate heart; and presently she could 
not refrain from tiptoeing to him and laying 
her soft fingers tentatively upon his arm. He 
looked up at her, smiled, and murmured, 
more to himself than to her : 

" Strange, strange. I ’ve noticed some- 
thing, a familiar trick of manner, something 
unforgotten from boyhood, Aunt Sophronia — 
Little Josephine, where is your — your 
nurse ? ” 

"In the sitting room with Mrs. Merri- 

O 


158 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


man, Uncle Joe. Shall I call her?” she an- 
swered. 

" If you will, dear. I ’d like to speak with 
her a moment,” said he. 

The ladies were deep in the intricacies of 
a new lace pattern, and though Miss Kimono 
rose obediently to the summons Josephine de- 
livered, Mrs. Merriman for once forgot the re- 
quirements of etiquette and followed without 
invitation. But Mr. Smith was now too excited 
to notice this, and so it happened that one of the 
old gentlewoman’s wishes was gratified with- 
out anybody’s connivance. " May I be there 
to see,” she had said, and here she was. 

" Miss Smith, what is your Christian name ? ” 
demanded the master of the house. 

" Desire Parkinson, Mr. Smith,” glancing 
toward the letters lying on his table, replied the 
nurse. They flung their brief remarks at each 
other, as though they were tossing balls, thus : 

He : " That is an uncommon name, Miss — 
Smith.” 

She : " As uncommon, I suppose, as our 
mutual surname is common.” 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 159 


He: "Were you named for anybody in 
especial ? ” 

She : " For a very dear lady in especial. 
For my mother’s twin sister.” 

He : " She was a Parkinson ? ” 

She : " She was a Parkinson.” 

He : " She married a Smith ? ” 

She : " She married a Smith, of Virginia. 
So did my mother another Smith, of another 
State. The world is full of them, Mr. Smith. 
We shall never be lonely because of a dearth 
of our patronymic.” The lady was smiling in 
great amusement, and, it is possible, the 
amusement was tinctured by a spice of malice. 

He : " What was your mother’s Christian 
name, if I may ask ? ” 

She : " Surely you may ask, and I will 
answer to the best of my ability. Her name 
was Sophronia.” 

He : " Then you and I are — are ” — 

She : " Bear up, Mr. Smith, we are first 
cousins.” 

He : "You — you knew this before ? ” 

She : " I ’ve known it ever since our branch 


160 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


of the family began fighting you to recover 
their portion of the old family estates in — 
Virginia ! ” 

The excitement of the moment, so long antic- 
ipated by her and undreamed of by him, was 
tinging her cheeks with a little color which 
made her, for the time being, nearly as hand- 
some as he was and that brought out with 
distinctness a strong family likeness. This re- 
semblance was swiftly detected by little Jose- 
phine, who caught a hand of each exclaiming : 

" Why, you ’re just the same as one another, 
my darling Kimono and my precious Uncle 
Joe ! We ’re all folks together? We ’re all the 
same Smith folks together ! ” 

Upon this tableau the portieres parted, and 
the dignified voice of Peter obtruded the an- 
nouncement : 

"Mr. Joseph Smith.” 

Utter silence for an instant, then Josephine 
dropped the hands she was clasping and 
bounded toward the new-comer, almost 
screaming her delight : 

" Papa ! Papa ! Papa ! ” 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 161 


"My little Joe ! John’s one baby daughter ! 
My precious little namesake ! ” 

The mislaid uncle had been found ! That 
truth was evident in the spontaneous recogni- 
tion of him, by his likeness so strong to his 
twin, that even the daughter had confounded 
the pair. A moment later, though, the child 
had perceived her own mistake and was re- 
garding him more shyly, from the safe refuge 
of the old Uncle Joe’s knee, which had long 
since learned to adjust itself to the conven- 
ience of small maidens. 

Something prompted Mrs. Merriman and 
Miss Kimono to withdraw from a scene they 
dreaded might be painful, and they thought- 
fully took Josephine away with them. They 
knew, far better than she, how wonderfully 
she had grown into the lonely heart of the 
aged millionaire, whose money was so power- 
less to buy for him what this other, younger 
Joseph was so rich in. It were kinder and 
wiser to leave the two uncles alone, and face 
to face to adjust their complicated affairs as 
best they might. 


162 


T1IE MISLAID UNCLE . 


Nobody need have feared, though. When 
folk are honest-minded, and love a common 
object, such as little Josephine, matters are 
soon arranged. In half an hour the conference 
was over, and the child ran back into the 
library to find the two Uncle Joes standing 
before its window and looking across the 
pretty square — where the crocuses were 
peeping through the tender grass and no sign 
of snow remained — toward a small house on 
its sunny northeastern corner. 

The child slipped in between the two and 
caught a hand of both, while for an instant each 
diverted his gaze to her sweet face and smiled 
upon her. Then began again the deep, well- 
beloved tones of the old Uncle Joe : 

"There, Joseph, that’s the house. It’s 
empty. I bought it on a speculation, and fitted 
it up well. It ’s completely furnished, and so 
nicely I would n’t let it to every tenant who ’s 
applied. That will go with the position, in 
addition to the salary. I ’ve been dissatisfied 
with Mr. Wakeman this long time. He ’s too 
officious, too grasping, too eager. I ’in thank- 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 1G3 


ful he found you, and will pay him well for it. 
But that ends his service to me. I ’ll give him 
an advance of wages and shake him. You can 
enter upon your duties — to-morrow, if you 
like. I ’ll send out a van or two to move in 
your effects.” 

The new Uncle Joe held up his hand. 

" Unnecessary, dear Mr. Smith. Our effects 
could easily be brought in on a pushcart ; ” yet 
saying this the man’s smile was neither less 
bright nor more ashamed. Why should he be 
ashamed? He had gone down in one battle 
with the world, but he was up again and ready 
for another. 

The answer, somehow, pleased the elder 
man. He liked simplicity, and he liked frank- 
ness. Josephine’s new uncle possessed both 
these, with an added cheerfulness which com- 
municated itself to all who met him. He was, 
or had been, as ready to take his brother’s 
charge upon his hands in his penury as he 
now seemed to be in his suddenly acquired 
prosperity. 

Looking across the square at the home offered 


164 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


him, his eye kindled and his cheek glowed. 
His figure that had stooped somewhat from 
the wasted strength due insufficient food be- 
came erect, and his whole bearing assumed a 
military poise that was so fondly familiar to 
the little Californian. 

" Oh, my, Uncle Joe ! My dear, sweet, new 
Uncle Joe ! You ’re more and more like my 
papa all the time. If you had on his gray, 
bright-buttony soldier clothes, and his lovely 
red sash, you would be a regular Company 
F — er ! would n’t you ? I wish mamma was 
here, and papa and Doctor Mack and funny 
big Bridget ! ” 

" So they all shall be some day, Josephine. 
But first you ’ll have to get acquainted with 
Tom, Dick, Harry, and Penelope, and the 
sweetest Aunt Kitty that ever the sun shone 
on,” he answered heartily. 

Josephine’s brown eyes opened in astonish- 
ment, and she said, with a deprecating look at 
the old Uncle Joe : 

" I ’d like to, if you ’d like me to, but he — 
this one — he ’d not like me to. He said, he 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 165 


told Michael, that lovely red-headed Michael, 
that I could n’t hob-nob — whatever that is — 
with any Tom, Dick, or Harry who was in the 
square. Did n’t you, Uncle Joe ? ” 

It pleased the old gentleman that she still 
retained her familiar name for him, and he lifted 
her tenderly to his breast, replying : 

"Yes, little lassie, I did ; but that was before 
I knew these were real children who were 
coming to live in my house yonder. Such 
boys as are brought up by this gentleman, and 
your own cousins — why, of course, it’s dif- 
ferent.” 

From her safe place within the first uncle’s 
arms, she questioned the younger man : 

" Have you got all those to your house, Uncle 
Joe?” 

"Yes, little girl. Will you come and live 
with them when we all move to that pretty 
house on the corner?” he responded. 

Her arm went around her first friend’s neck, 
and he now did n’t fret in the least because it 
rumpled his fresh linen, as she cuddled her 
cheek against his, and asked : 


166 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


" Who ’ll live here with you in this big 
house, first Uncle Joe? ” 

"Oh, I suppose my colored 'boys’ only; 
as before you came,” was his low-toned an- 
swer. 

"Nobody else?” she continued, in tones 
equally low. 

He sighed : " Who else could, lassie ? ” 

" Why, me ! He ’s got so many, and it ’s 
only across the square. And Red Kimono, 
who ’s your own cousin, you know. Shall 
we?” 

"If you will, darling,” answered the old 
man, with moistened eyes. 

" Then when papa and mamma come back 
from that far off red-pickley country maybe 
they ’d be glad to stay, too. Can’t ’lectrickel- 
lers find places to earn money in this Balti- 
more, Uncle Joe? ” 

"Be sure that your Uncle Joe and I will 
find your electrician a fine place, little one ; 
and we ’ll call Red Kimono by her real name, 
Cousin Desire, because she was my mother’s 
twin sister’s child ; and we ’ll send for big 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 167 


Bridget to wait upon this real Tom, Dick, and 
Harry combination of youngsters ; and — any- 
thing you like ! ” he answered, so gleefully 
that even Peter scarcely recognized him. 

"Will you? Will you? Oh, I love you — 
I love you ! I love you both, both. But is n’t 
it the twiniest kind of world ever was ! Papa 
and Uncle Joe are twins ; and your mamma 
and Red Kimono’s mamma were twins ; and 
Tom and Dick are twins ; and big Bridget’s 
folks are twins; and — Oh, oh, there’s my 
darling, red-headed Michael going by ! I must 
call him in, I truly must! Won’t he be the 
gladdest boy ever lived, to know all about my 
new cousins that I never saw coming to live 
and play with us in the square ? He has n’t 
any child to his house and you have n’t any 
child but me to yours, Uncle Joe ; and the 
line-fence is down ; so nothing ’s to hinder 
Michael and me making another pair of twins, 
is there ? ” 

Nobody prevented the child’s movement to 
bring in her first child-friend in that strange 
city to which she had come, and presently 


168 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


entered the jolly lad, flushed and breathless 
and a trifle unkempt, as was his habit, but 
with such a manly bearing and such a world of 
good-fellowship beaming from his freckled 
face, that the new Uncle Joe [instantly rejoiced 
in the prospect of such a comrade for his own 
small lads. 

" Good afternoon, Mr. Smith and — Mr. 
Smith ; and is it all just as she says ? ” demanded 
the small gentleman from Virginia. " Has the 
little ' Express Parcel * really found her right 
uncle at last? ’Cause it’s just like a ’Rabian 
Night’s story, seems to me, and girls — well, 
girls, you know, they — they’re sometimes 
silly, ’cept Josephine, maybe.” Then, as if a 
sudden fear attacked him he turned upon her, 
firmly admonishing her to remember : " If I ’m 
to be your twin, as you say, you Ve got to 
have no nonsense in it. If I say ' go in ’ when 
there ’s a lot of boys out in the square you ’ll 
have to mind, ’cause they don’t always act 
polite, you see. Oh, bother ! It ’s all boys, 
anyway, is n’t it ! I wish there was another 
girl, to even up ” — 


THE DISPOSAL OF THE PARCEL. 169 


"Why, Michael Merriman ! ” cried Jose- 
phine, interrupting her playmate’s long speech. 
"There is another girl! You forget — how 
could you forget — Penelope ! ” 

At which the new Uncle Joe threw back his 
handsome head and laughed as he had not 
laughed in many a day ; for in fancy he could 
see Miss Penelope, aged seven months, help- 
ing "Cousin Josephine” to maintain the 
dignity of their mutual girlhood, as against a 
square full of rollicking lads. 

Presently everybody was laughing, for hap- 
piness is delightfully infectious, and always 
even more "catching” than the measles. 
Grandma Merriman and Cousin Desire, who 
had come quietly into the room; the three 
black "boys” in the hall outside; the two 
Uncle Joes and Michael ; and most heartily, 
most musically of all, the little San Diegan, 
who for very joy could not keep still, but 
went skipping and flying about the room, like 
a bewilderingly lovely butterfly, demanding 
between whiles of the person nearest : 

"Oh, isn’t it beautiful, beautiful? Aren’t 


1T0 


THE MISLAID UNCLE. 


you glad I was a wrong ' parcel/ and came to 
this wrong, splendid, old Uncle Joe?” 

"I am,” answered that gentleman, with 
sweet solemnity ; " since your coming has 
showed me how to deal justly, and love mercy, 
and find happiness in my barren wealth. God 
bless you, little 'Parcel ’ ! ” 

" Amen, and amen ! ” echoed the other Uncle 
Joe, as he went softly and swiftly out, to carry 
the good news to those whom he loved. 

THE END. 















LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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